


The Eight Stages of Falling in Love

by Itar94



Series: There’s a Beta for Every Writer, and Vice Versa [1]
Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arwen is a total shipper, Characters Writing Fanfic, Dysfunctional Family, Emails and letters, Everyone else is amused, Gimli and Legolas are teenagers in love, Legolas and Arwen are BFFs, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Meddling matchmaking cousins, Mentions of large amounts of alcohol consumption, Modern AU, Nobody listens to Elrond's advice, Social Media, Thranduil goes through like fifteen hundred stages of denial of his son being in love, Thranduil just can't express his concerns, also i would ignore the prologue until the end of the fic, also the twins are total menaces, and high school, and to fictional variations of the tolkien fandom, but in a good way, except gimli, fíli and kíli just want to help, i think it might make sense some actual day then, references to other fandoms - Freeform, some plot inconsistencies please deal with it, sometimes it's serious sometimes it's humour sometimes nearly crack i don't even know what anymore, there is also tumblr, there is some other pairings snuck in there too, well to be honest Thranduil is quite unamused as well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 56,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itar94/pseuds/Itar94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gimli, a Dwarf among many living in Erebor, just wants to write a fic of mind-blowing proportions. That's all. And maybe gain a few more followers on tumblr. That's it. He's not anything special, doesn't have that many readers, isn't very outgoing at school but this is because he doesn't need to (he's awesome). Also his cousins won't stop bothering him.</p><p>Then along comes this beta reader who is surprisingly good at what they do.  And Gimli grows a bit attached to them, reluctant as he is to admit it, even if they have an odd love for kittens and trees and knitting patterns. But, by Mahal's beard, that amount of snark shouldn't be legal even on the internet!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> _First, off, a Disclaimer may be in order, so here we go: I don’t own anything recognizable, may it be characters, places or sites mentioned in the text. The world of Middle Earth and all it contains is the work of JRR Tolkien. I’m just borrowing them and shall return them all safe and sound once I’m done. All apparent email addresses and tumblr posts are_ fake.  
>  _Also I wrote a huge author's note for this story. It's not really necessary to read it to be able to understand this story, but it offers some explanation and, well, maybe some enjoyment to our inner geek (at least mine). This note is found at the bottom of the story._

**PROLOGUE**

It ends much like this (but it’s still not quite an ending):

The screen is partly covered by post-it notes, most of which has text in fiercely red letters on them but also a few messages in green, bright and lively. A cup of simple black coffee stands beside it on the rather littered desk, still steaming slightly. The door is half-opened.

Activity from various parts of the building can be heard; from the kitchen nearby, the clattering of pans and the opening of a fridge; voices, one bright and soft and the other rather rough. There’s a faint ringing sound far-off, which the speakers first doesn’t notice – too preoccupied with each other no doubt. The faint smell of waffles can be felt.

After some time, once the clattering has lessened and the kettle is on, footsteps near the study. The small wardrobe-made-into-office (there’s no room left anywhere else in the apartment) floods with light.

 **Inbox (76)**  
Junk Mail (9)  
Drafts (2)  
Sent (0)

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: dw.alin.the.master@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-12-26 12:09:53

**Subject: Re: re: My Patience Is Wearing Thin**

_Listen you lazy clod, have you taken up my advice yet? HAVE YOU?! The Company have now also been adjourned and your cousins have even begun attacking ME about this matter. Wholly unfair. Also annoying._

_Your silence displeases me greatly. I DEMAND YOUR IMMEDIATE REPLY. DO NOT STALL ANY LONGER, OR DURIN’S BANE SHALL BE UPON YOU._

_Best Regards,_

_The Master Dwarf_

_(P.S. Congratulations on the apartment. When will you invite us over to celebrate? Make sure there is food and lots of it!)_

* * *

**You’ve got kudos!**

22 guests, adventurer14, MajorlyMajesticDWARF, treehopper and fanaticalreader007 left kudos on Destiny.

9 guests and silverharpminstrel left kudos on Digging in the Rock.

* * *

The ringing in the background grows louder. An age-old tune is played, short and repetitive. Finally, the sound is recognized by the building's inhabitants.

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: elftwins_unseparable@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-12-29 16:17:02

**Subject: Re: Kindly wondering/request (related to Grand Upcoming Event)**

_Dear Master Dwarf,_

_~~I~~ _ **_we_ ** _have paid careful heed to your request. It’s ~~blue~~ **green** ELLADAN STOP INTERRUPTING ME that’s the best colour, plus silver; he likes that too. And really where are our invitations? It’s quite rude not to invite us. Officially. You know a letter in a fine envelope and with a stamp on it, not a tumblr message. ALSO, FACEBOOK STATUSES CHANGING LIKE THAT? HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW THRA ~~Shut up El we’ve already had this discussion with Master Dwarf and we are all quite aware of the situation and anyway who cares it’s not our business some people don’t like when their sons are going~~ kuakeb ejhgbed ndl. ~~~~_

_Will Fíli and Kíli be there? Do invite them, please. They WON’T ruin anything; we swear we’ll make sure of it ~~and booze~~. ELLADAN. STOP. Please do apologize my brother’s quirks, Master Dwarf, he’s trying his best. ELROHIRR AHSBKEJ ND!MF-----_

_..ehnfnjkeb02i_

_.hehyf_

_._

_Anyway we’ll solve this matter privately and hope your questions are now answered. Please return if WAIT A MOMENT I HAVE A QUnho93 , El! Let me ask_

_AGAIN SORRY ABOUT MY BROTHER_

_Salutations, ~~what’s with the formality?~~_

_El & El_

* * *

**Comment on Destiny. BofurWithAHAt left the following comment on Destiny:**

_Oh. MY. GOD._

_THIS._

**_THIS_ ** _._

_I can’t even. Just. AWESOMENESS. This might be this best thing you’ve **ever** written. KEEP AT IT!_

_Btw, your beta, is it really this person? picture post at THEKING101.tumblr.com/post/199203/bff-meet-up-lothlorien/ (on the left next to that beardish man?)_

_If it is **then I am jealous VERY MUCH**!_

_+1000 and eternally a fan of you, sir!_

Posted: SA 2013-12-26 12:20:12

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* * *

The ringing continues, persistently, until inaudible footsteps cross the wooden floor. There’s a soft click.

“Hello?”

* * *

To: dw.alin.the.master@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-12-28 20:21:31

 **Subject: Re: re: re:** **My Patience Is Wearing Thin**

_Master Dwalin,_

_I am working on it. What you think I have been doing? Da's sent me items from his workshop and all, and I have now been at work the whole week! It has to be no less than perfect. You ought to understand._

_Now stop bothering me. Could you please ask Thorin to keep my cousins in check? I’m tired on them calling me every eight minutes. I am not an invalid. Also tell them IT IS NOT TRUE. WHATEVER THEIR DIRTY MINDS MAY THINK, IT’S NOT TRUE AND DON’T LET THEM DEFILE THE MINDS OF ANY OF MY FRIENDS. Thank you._

_Best Regards,_

_Unquestionable Power of Axes_

_PS. Yes, yes, I’ll organise a party when everything else has been taken care of. YES, there will be food, and the whole Company shall be invited. Now give me a break! DS._

* * *

To: elftwins_unseparable@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com       
SA 2013-12-29 20:12:01

**Subject: Re: re: Kindly wondering/request (related to [the] Grand Upcoming Event)**

_Thank you, Master Elves._

_Despite your honestly worrisome ramblings I have managed to decipher the necessary information. You have my gratitude. (Unbelievable as it may seem.)_

_Since you so insist, please check your mailbox – the physical one – within the following week. There ought to be an envelope. Yes, with a stamp._ _But don’t tell the elf. If you ruin this surprise you will find my axe swiftly buried in areas you don’t want it._

_My cousins will only be there **if** Strider is present. He’s the only one who can keep YOU, and therefore them, in check. I shall invite your father of course._

_/G._

_PS. Your messages always seem to end up among my junk mail. Could you please stop spamming? It clogs up my system. DS._

* * *

A voice calls from the other room: “Gimli, Aunt Dís in on the phone! She wants to talk with you.”

“I’ll be right there!”

* * *

**Comment on Destiny. pointygreyhat left the following comment on Destiny:**

_Pure excellence! You have had me entirely hooked all the way. My compliments. Your writing standard truly has risen as of late. Do keep your current beta intact!_

Posted: SA 2013-12-27 04:04:04

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* * *

That might be how it ends (although it is but the mere _beginning_ of an end).

But _this_ is how it starts...


	2. Part 1

_Morning dawned, bright and clear, over the city. Sunlight danced_

‘Danced’? That sounds like what an Elf would write! Maybe ‘filtered down’…but through what? The canopy – which canopy? Or the clouds? No, that won’t do. After a moment of thought he presses backspace repeatedly and starts again:

_Sunlight fell upon the stone gates, tall and proud as they reflected the wealth of the city. Upon each side of the gates stood a large statue; cut out of the bare rock, finely chiselled down to the last detail by ~~many~~ several generations of Dwarves, as an abundant (?) testament over their power, their knowledge and their ultimate kingdom._

_They were wide open, as spring had come thawing away the cold snow of winter and soon, traders would_

A voice thunders from below, vibrating through the floor: “Dinner-time!”

He pauses, hands hovering over the keyboard, still thinking about the wording as he distractedly replies. “Yes, coming! One minute, Da!”

_come flooding with goods from far and wide to the famous market of Dale. It was going to be a good day, of this the young Dwarf Prince was sure as he opened his dark eyes as he woke, sleep lingering in their cor_ (backspace backspace backspace) _depths._

Yes, that’s a better word.

_All was calm. None knew of the darkness which already was moving/sweeping (?) closer._ (Evolve idea.)

_But then, suddenly, the_

“Son, the food’s getting cold!”

_door was roughly opened as a page entered_ (blustering? Bumbling? WHICH WORD?) _the chamber. The servant had always been loud and rather clumsy, not quite a good servant to be honest; and the morning routine was quite annoying to_

“Gimli!”

Footsteps, growing louder, echo up the stairs. He twists his head slightly toward the door, yet not taking his eyes off the incomplete sentence before him; “Yes, I’m _coming_!”

With a frustrated sigh he stares at the screen. The majority is still blank and white. Why is it that _every_ time he has a grand idea he seems unable to put it into words? Now when reading through the text, it seems entirely pointless. It makes no _sense_. He has the plot, clear in his mind: every event. But this is his third rewrite and every time he comes to _that_ point in the text, everything just halts – like a train wreaking havoc before reaching even the first station.

The Dwarf glances at the he’d notes scribbled during the geography lesson this Friday and the jumbled words stare back at him blankly. _Morning, dwarfprince+servant dialogue_ , it reads, _sudden panic,_ something; it could be _roll_ or _doll? …_ Right _, warning bells toll_ and _FIRE _ (heavily underlined). All in all, very basic.

Almost _too_ basic.

He hasn’t even arrived at the dialogue yet!

“GIMLI!”

With a sigh, he closes the lid of the laptop. Maybe later. After the steak. Then he’d better check to see if he’s gotten any new messages – most of it is usually spam or short messages from either of his cousins asking if he could meet them for coffee at The Prancing Pony downtown when they _know_ when he is busy ~~writing~~ doing homework. And maybe see if shire.gardener has made any updates – they always rec the best fics.

* * *

His Da is not that concerned with his silence. He’s mostly busy anyway in his workshop – he has his own small business, making jewellery; all kinds of folk, not merely Dwarves, are interested in that and business goes well. Glóin is used to that his eighteen-year-old son, when not attending lectures at school, spends most of his time by his desk. He’s never been that interested in the writing or blogging or whatever he does in itself, although he _does_ wonder if Gimli really spends as much time doing homework as he claims.

“So are you going to meet with your cousins this weekend?” Glóin asks.

They are pretty much the only people his son spends time with. Well, in the physical sense of the word at least. The old Dwarf cannot quite understand this whole thing about being online and has no need to either; his generation doesn’t require constant updates, and he’s content spending his energy and time in his jewellery shop.

“Well, I guess so,” Gimli says distractedly, chewing on a potato.

“You could study with them. Don’t you often go to that coffee-shop downtown? You ought to bring your books.”

Gimli stares at his father incredulously. He can’t for his life image Fíli or Kíli doing anything but sharing gossip and picking fights and pulling pranks – when he shares classes with them, they mostly sleep or doodle in their notebooks alternatively. And winter break isn’t over yet!

“Well, yeah,” he says at length.

(For the next few days, said books will remain lying burrowed at the bottom of the backpack pushed into the corner of the wardrobe.)

* * *

Before leaving the house, he takes five minutes to check his emails; the habitual skimming over spam to see if there’s been any recent updates or any alerts doesn’t take long. There is usually not that many anyway. He usually takes to following only one story at the time, if it truly has gotten him on edge with anticipation; but mainly he likes reading completed stories. Starting a story with good plot, decent characterising and a surprising twist mid-way only to realize it is marked work in progress is always as frustrating.

(Every time he tries explaining this to Kíli, his cousin would only stare at him in utter befuddlement. Then again, he doesn’t understand the point of watching Doctor Who either; instead he spends his time causing trouble with his brother and attending those bloody archery lessons, of all things!)

* * *

 **_Comment on Digging in the Rock._ ** _ rockingmarchwarden left the following comment on  Digging in the Rock:_

_Awesome fic at first but the plot disappeared half-way and … and then wtf?! And the pairing doesn’t really make sense to me. Couldn’t understand really and WHYYY IS THE ENDING SO FUCKING SAD!!!??_

_Posted: SA 2013-01-01 19:22:30_

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* * *

Well, he’s not that surprised at the reaction. For some reason he doesn’t understand, in most fandoms he ships the most unusual pairings. Unusual as in not mainstream; however, they make perfectly sense to him. And then when he sometimes admits to liking canon ships that no one else does, people tend to want to throw (cyber) rocks on him – that is, if they notice him. Which they mostly don’t. He has a few loyal readers (such as BofurWithAHat) and if he gains some dozen comments on a story he is happy about that; albeit he must admit he does glance slightly jealously at the famous names like FrodoLives101 and their 2350-ish comments.

The Dwarf opens the next message, barely hopeful.

* * *

 **_Comment on Digging in the Rock._ ** _ Strongbow left the following comment on Digging in the Rock:_

_So happy that I found this story – I wasn’t even aware of this pairing before!!_

_You gave it a perfect ending. Bittersweet but **sooo** good; there was no other way to finish it and my heart really broke when reading, but it was truly astounding. Your ideas are wonderful and you did a great job. I am quite jealous, you know! Do keep on writing these amazing things!_

_This pairing’s new to me and apparently quite rare; I couldn’t find anything really featuring them and it’s a pity you’ve not written anything more about them. If taking the time to reply to this comment, do you have tips on good fics with them, please? (Filled with a sudden need.)_

_Posted: SA 2013-01-02 12:55:01_

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* * *

On the other hand, unlike FrodoLives101 (who probably has no time for it) he cares for each and every one of his readers and tries to reply to every comment he gets. Even when they are foulmouthed bordering on the extreme or just plainly make no sense. So getting this kind of response makes him a very happy Dwarf, especially since the name is new; it’s not just a kind habitual comment, but something honest.

* * *

_**Re: Your comment on Digging in the Rock** _

_Greetings and thank you, Strongbow! I am glad you enjoyed it._

_I agree; there’s not much of this pairing to be found. It’s a pity there are really no mentions of them in any meme to be found. I have prompted some here and there is a fill or two here as well, if you hunger for more._

Would some self-promotion be good or bad? His next story won’t even be in the same fandom.

_You might enjoy my next story, although it’s not in this fandom. Are you a reader of ‘There And Back Again?’ The live film adaptation was wonderfully made. Anyway, that is the fandom. The tone of my next story will be similar to this, but on a much bigger scope._

_Thank you for reading!_

_/Power_of_Axes_

* * *

It is 14:03 when he clicks the send button and, simultaneously, his cell-phone vibrates on the desk and blinks, loudly begging for attention. He glances at the screen barely containing a sigh when seeing who is so viciously texting him.

The message silently screams: ‘Where are you i’m bored cheer me up’

Gimli picks up the phone and replies: ‘There is something called punctuation. Ever heard of it, cousin?’

At 14:06 comes the answer, ‘yu’re borign and a grammarnazgûl yes indeeeeed’, which Gimli _knows_ is purely to drive him mad.

* * *

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: JustAnotherRanger_84@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-01-02 16:23:54

**Subject: Downtown?**

_Hey! Care meeting later today? Will have access to car. El & El promise to come. Eastfarthing Coffeeshop at 5:30 pm? I can pick you up if you’d like._

_/A._

* * *

When seeing the message, he sighs loudly, exasperated. But his father’s adamant. There is no way to persuade him to let him leave the house, not when there’s still so much homework and especially not on a _Monday_ of all days: so the blonde Elf clicks reply and types for a minute. The dark wildly furred cat in his lap purrs contently, as if unaware of its owner’s frustration.

* * *

To: JustAnotherRanger_84@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-01-02 16:52:01

**Subject: Re: Downtown?**

_I’m sorry, but my father won’t let me. I’ll probably be stuck at home until I’ve done all my homework – you know how he is, more stubborn than even a Dwarf! - but Saturday maybe?_

_Tell the twins I said hello. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! Tell the twins ESPECIALLY that!!_

_Cheers,_

_Legolas_

* * *

The urge to open a new tab is strong, but the sooner he finishes that essay, the quicker he may find time to do other funnier things. So stifling the sharp desire he closes the laptop lid and glances at his books.

Aragorn’s lucky; his adoptive father may be strict, but _nothing_ like Thranduil. The Elf snorts wryly at the thought. Yes – nothing like Thranduil. Whereas Elrond has shown nothing but support toward all of his children, even more so after the twins revealed their bisexuality (no surprise to anyone), Legolas really can’t imagine his father reacting so calmly at a similar revelation. He reacted badly enough when a younger Legolas asked why he couldn’t go to a public elementary instead of being home-schooled. Honestly, he’d grown _horns_.

Thus why he never ever lets his father find out what kind of blog he has, or what he writes. What he _reads_. He’d go berserk for sure. He’s already quite tense with the way he dresses, with the knitted jumpers and the colourful bracelets and, by Valar, the _earrings,_ but at the moment he passes off as a ‘phase’ that his son will surely grow out of soon. Legolas happily lets him believe so. Soon, soon he’ll be of age and then he’ll be out of here, but his own apartment and apply for Lórien Art and Writing University (LAW Uni). (His father won’t be fooled by the abbreviation for very long.)

The Elf returns to the papers spread over the kitchen table, absently stroking the cat’s fur with his right hand as he picks up the pencil with his left. Now, let’s see … history. Right. Umbar. Something about corsairs back in the in 3rd Age …

* * *

“You didn’t answer my calls,” is the first thing Kíli says, promptly, when they finally meet up in a corner street of Dale. Frost bites at their cheeks as they hurriedly cross the street; they’d opted for taking the bus instead of walking, because the roads are still so icy and slippery (and Gimli has a suspicion that his cousin would take pleasure in constantly trying to make him trip). A faint ringing bell sounds as they push open the door. Inside, it’s warm and cosy, and the air smells of freshly baked pastries. Mm, raspberries.

Gimli is quite reluctantly there, even though the muffins are _very_ good and the coffee is excellent. A notepad is stuffed in his pocket. He’s always been traditional like that, liking to sketch out a story with pen and paper, albeit editing is much easier by the computer. But it’s perfect when he is struck by plot bunnies, which happens most often at school or other public places when he doesn’t have access to anything else.

“You didn’t answer _any_ of them!” his cousin goes on irritably. “Today _or_ yesterday.”

“I answered your texts,” Gimli answers with a grunt. “All 38 of them.”

The younger Dwarf doesn’t look apologetic the least. “I was _bored_ , okay?”

“Well, go de-bore yourself on someone else next time! I was busy.”

“With those stories again?” He sounds fairly aggravated. (But then again he often does.) “It is an, um, Superiorly Natural thingy now?”

He rolls his eyes at his cousin’s blatant overdoing. He’s not really _that_ stupid. “ _Supernatural_. And to answer your question, no. Anyway,” he says quickly, because somehow it feels wrong to spill the plot of his latest idea to his oblivious cousin. It would take away the edge of his plan, and they would only cause him to write yet another crack!fic and he would get totally off track. “Where’s your brother? Wasn’t he supposed to be here?”

He orders a coffee; black, no sugar. Kíli takes something very a lot of whipped cream and a spoonful of sugar – which he honestly doesn’t need, he’s hyper enough anyway - and together they take seat in a corner of The Prancing Pony. They manage to find an empty table against all odds, a small table-lamp casting a yellow glow on the square tablecloth.

It’s a highly popular place (everyone within a twenty mile radius has heard of the fabulous barista in charge) and lots of people are there now in the afternoon; Men and Dwarves mostly, but there are a couple of Elves there as well – a couple of women with high heels (as if they need them!) and very bright, soft voices. Upon seeing them, Gimli can’t hold back a snort. Elves! Even in this Age they keep being so high and mighty. Though these two keep giggling over something – not acting like age-old wiz-heads, rather manic teenage girls - pouring over a magazine or another; something that Gimli probably does not read.

Anyway.

“Fíli will be here in a minute. But honestly, Gimli! You spend all day cooped up on that fiction site and isn’t social at all. However are you going to get a boyfriend at this rate?”

Gimli swats him over the head. “I’m not in a hurry for a boyfriend. And I _am_ social, you dim-wit. See, I am even taking time to hang out with you and willing to overlook your most annoying perks over a friendly cup of coffee.”

“But I saw it – your notebook. Which means I am going to sit here and talk, and you’re going to sit there and write and be unsociable.”

Kíli’s expression is a testament of utter pain and Gimli swats his head again. Because he can, and his cousin is being ridiculous. Really!

“Untrue! I merely chose not to listen to your ramble once it’s gotten uninteresting. There’s a difference.”

Kíli pouts, which is entirely unbecoming one of Durin’s folk. He doesn’t brighten until his brother arrives, armed with just ordered pastries that smell sweetly, and despite his initial impatience Gimli launches into conversation with them both. Soon they speak vividly and joke loudly, and his earlier worries are entirely forgotten.

Until he gets home that is.

* * *

**Re: re: Your comment on Digging in the Rock**

_Yes, I’m an avid fan of There and Back Again, just as with the rest of the books in the ‘verse. It’s an amazing series! It will be interesting to see what you’ll come up with. Will definitely bookmark this page in wait for a future post!_

_/Strongbow_

* * *

It’s kind of uplifting. Maybe he could seriously write that story without giving up half-way. Maybe. Perhaps. Someday…

If only the words would come to him and make sense!

* * *

A gentle snowfall brushes against the windows. Frost rims the edges of the glass. The sun has already started settling, but he can’t see the red disc slip beneath the horizon because the tall fir trees are in the way.

The Mirkwood Residence lies rather remotely outside of town - of course his father also owns a house at the centre too, for his business’ sake, but during winter and summer breaks this is where the family of Eryn Lasgalen is vested in along with a small set of servants.

Or at least one half of the family.

The age-old butler has gone with his father on business, and the cleaning main has retired for the day. This leaves Legolas on his own.

At five past six, his cell vibrates and he abandons the books, glad for the distraction. His father should be back any minute now, he thinks absently, glancing at the clock. Unless he’s called to some urgent meeting of course, or decides to work overtime as he often does; without warning other than calling to curtly say that he’ll be home at nine or later.

The large, empty house is very silent and chilly. Legolas has tried shutting the quietness out with headphones and hold back the cold by wearing two pair of socks, but the floors still are unforgiving even if Elves usually are unbothered by such temperatures. Every lamp in the room is lit, glowing white and bright. He’s never been really comfortable with the open plan of this house.

There’s … well, there’s _too_ _much_ space, which is a very odd complaint coming from an Elf. It’s not really the space itself that’s bothering him. It’s the _silence_ , heavy and dull, and the bareness of the walls. The sofa, white and pristine, looks like it’s never been sat in and there are very few paintings, all of them very anonymous. And outside of the grand mansion, even in the high throes of summer, the garden is too … well, _too_ _perfectly aligned_. Legolas wouldn’t have minded if there were more trees, a couple of birches perhaps, and thicker grass and wilder flowers spilling over their beds. But now the snow lays thick outside and the birds have flown south. All is still.

Everything around him looks new and unused – the cleaning personnel certainly make sure of that. There’s nothing cosy _,_ nothing _homely_.

‘Too bad you couldn’t come,’ the text in his hand says. ‘Arwen’s here.’

Legolas smirks, thinking of his friend’s totally obvious infuriation with her; the female Elf is several years older than the Man (not that it’s physically noticeable), a healthy 46-year-old contra Aragorn’s twenty-two. (And _yes_ , if asked Legolas will admit that it’s very annoying that his best Mortal friend is older than himself.) In all honesty he’s been waiting for the last two years for either of them to make a move.

‘Say hello from me will you? And, you two should get a room. I can FEEL you making eyes at each other all the way from here.’

The reaction is swift. ‘LIAR!’

‘You’re blushing aren’t you? Aragorn and Arwen, sitting in a tree’

He hits send before he can finish, collapsing over the table in a sudden insane fit of giggles. He pictures with ease the young Man’s expression and squirming. Finally, there’s an answer – furiously flashing across the screen. The words appear to have been stabbed into the device with the mightiest force the Man could summon:

‘LEGOLAAASS!!!!! SHUT UUUP!!!’

He fumbles somewhat with the phone, shoulders still shaking. ‘Ask El & El to take a picture for me OK?’

* * *

Back to square one. But third time (well, fourth, to be honest) is the charm. He hopes.

_Morning climbed over the hills and settled in the valley below. Its light made the while stone walls of the buildings appear pearly and white. The city, carved into the mountain itself, was already awake, servants scurrying from one corridor to another, busy with work. The sky was clear and it was quite warm for a spring day._

_Sunlight fell upon the stone gates, tall and proud as they reflected the wealth of the city. Upon each side of the gates stood a large statue; cut out of the bare rock, finely chiselled down to the last detail by generations of Dwarves, as a prodigious testament over their power, their knowledge and their ultimate kingdom._

_They were wide open, as spring had come thawing away the cold snow of winter and soon, traders would come flooding with goods from far and wide to the famous market of Dale._

_All was calm. If a storm was coming, none were aware. None knew of the darkness which already was sweeping closer to the vale, step by step. None had heard its warning, chill wind coming from the north. No bells tolled. Not yet._

_It was going to be a good day; of this the young Dwarf Prince was sure. He had slept well and felt refreshed. But then, suddenly, the door was roughly opened as a page entered the chamber with a great amount of noise. The servant had always been loud and rather clumsy, not quite a good servant to be honest. “Breakfast, sire!” the lad announced loudly, setting down an overfilled tray on the table. Then he saw the Prince as if for the first time, and exclaimed: “You’re dressed!”_

_“Yes. I sometimes wonder if you were dropped on your head when you were young, or if you simply were born that way,” responds the prince sarcastically, ignoring the hurt look on the servant’s face._

_“I wasn’t_

Wait. This is getting off track. Off off off track. This is meant to turn _dark_. Not some silly prelude to a comic relief, for Mahal’s sake!

He stares at the freshest line, as if the words would somehow turn on themselves and create proper sentences. But they don’t. They remain unmoving.

(Backspace, backspace, backspace.)

…

What he needs, he realizes, is for someone to be there all through this story and give him some feedback. Criticism and encouragement. There’s something lacking to this story. It can’t quite get started. He has a few drafts stored away of fragmented chapters – he has the middle part quite ready to be honest, the main body has been forged; but it’s the bloody start of the thing that has him tied into knots.

Most of the time, Gimli has contented with publishing stories without having someone else beta-reading them first; it’d just be so much trouble, when he has s few readers. But before even coming very far into this story, he knows he _needs_ it to be written and he needs it to be _good_.

Opening a new tab, he launches into a frantic search for forums and LJ communities. Surely he’d leave a shout-out somewhere and find someone interested; this fandom is more well-known after all, as is the pairing. But then he hesitates. Would there be a beta willing to take on this kind of project? He hasn’t gotten far, but common sense tells him that it’ll probably be a word monster. It’ll be a monthly-long project and he wants the same beta throughout the process for constancy’s sake. Would anyone even _want_ to agree beta reading a piece that’s not even past the 50% mark?

In the end, he leaves a note, shortly explaining the nature of his story-to-be and his dire need of a beta; and that he just needs someone to generally look over his work, give pointers on the plot and characterizations rather than just grammar. If they could help him fix the first chapter, the rest might just come along after that. Maybe he could get at least _one_ reply.


	3. Part 2

When scouring his favourite forums – well, one of his favourites, for he has many (but F.I.G.W.I.T. Prompt Exchange tops the list by far) – he finds it. A small note at the bottom; it doesn’t have a single reply. Legolas hasn’t seen this name on the forum before though.

* * *

_ SA 2013-01-04 10:01 pm (UTC)  
Power_of_Axes _

**_Beta reader wanted_ ** _**for ‘There And Back Again’ story**_

_Seeking beta reader for LONG AU fic, not quite started yet. I will publish everything once completed, credited correctly of course. Summary found below and more details. It will be quite dark and take unexpected twists, and therefore the plot itself is quite heavy. I will need a beta willing to hang on for the whole ride, one who doesn’t give up after five chapters. If interested please contact me either by leaving a message here in this thread or over here at my tumblr._

_/Power_of_Axes_

_ (Show more... _ _)_

_Edited at 2013-01-04 10:34 pm (UTC)  
( Reply)(Thread)_

* * *

It seems kind of interesting. And he’s not beta read for some time. So he clicks _Show more_ and skims through the details; the summary gains his attention, but it’s the pairing which catches his interest. Actually there are two pairings listed and it’s the second, almost only hinted at, that makes the whole thing a lot more interesting. It’s quite rare.

A quick search soon guides him to the profile of Power_of_Axes. They don’t seem to have written a great amount of stories; not many readers nor bookmarks. The Elf browses the page; some titles are attached to fandoms he’s only heard of but not engaged in, but others are very familiar.

In fact, he remembers reading one particular story by this author just earlier this month. It’d been quite good – maybe it needed some polishing up, but the plot had been fresh and original, and caused him to laugh and get annoyed at the characters’ obliviousness and cry once he hit the bittersweet end; he’d been vividly moved by that story.

He’d left a comment, at least he thinks he did, though he isn’t sure under which pseudonym: he hadn’t cared at that moment, because he’d been so touched by the story he just needed to vent out his immediate reaction.

Hm, maybe. And it’d help put his mind off the fact his father _once_ _again_ has grounded him – no matter how many times he’d apologized for going out with the twin the whole night two days ago, Thranduil had refused to relent. At least, Legolas reflects, it’s not as bad as that one time he invited over Aragorn and they attempted to raid his father’s wine cellar.

He clicks the link.

* * *

The thread remains irksomely empty for the next few days. Then the young Dwarf opens his email one Monday morning before heading off for his college classes to find one new tumblr message. And then he blinks at the subject line, surprised. A message? Already?

To be honest, he hadn’t expected any reaction for _weeks,_ as with most of his posts.

* * *

_Hi there!_

_I noticed you’re in need of a beta reader. I have beta’ed for this fandom before – on and off for some three years now - and the summary sounds quite interesting. I would be glad to help. Just send me a message with more details._

_My strengths lie in grammar and punctuation; nevertheless I may also look at the flow and consistency of the story if you would like me to. I am quite frank and will be honest with you; if I find something to be crap, I will tell you so._

_The fic isn’t completed yet I gather? I’m willing to take on the challenge if it turns out to be interesting enough. Have you planned it out, though? Or do you need help tying up loose ends?_

_Curious to learn more,_

_greenleaf_

* * *

greenleaf? Never heard of the name, but the offer is kind and Gimli clicks the link.

Most of greenleaf’s dashboard is filled with various memes – and _lots_ of snarky and/or sarcastic comments regarding them – and pictures of kittens, supposedly cute. Gimli mainly finds them hairy albeit there’s something about large, innocent eyes … anyway, he’s not here to stare at kittens. There are also quite a few obviously shipper reblogs and then pictures of colourful shoes and very weird clothes, probably of some Elf-brand that Gimli’s not heard of.

The profile description under the name makes the Dwarf think of some hair-dyed vegetarian with a particular love for indie pop music (not quite the power metal the Dwarf prefers). It also proudly states that greenleaf is a slash shipper (there’s a list of OTPs and OT3s; a list including, to Gimli’s delight, both Johnlock and Merthur) and that they own a cat named Estel and practices archery. The profile icon depicts the early mentioned cat (or at least Gimli supposes it is): a dark, rather wildly-furred, thing, with quite prominent ears. There are no references to greenleaf’s age or race. Probably Mannish though.

There’s a link to an AO3 profile as well, which upon inspection proves that they are quite much like him writing-wise. Not many published stories and they have both few hits and not many words; all he can see have less than 10,000 words. Most is written in Common, but there’s a poem or two in Elfish, or it could be Rohirric (he isn’t sure which); neither of which Gimli does not speak or is interested in. It could however mean that greenleaf isn’t _entirely_ stupid, despite their music preferences.

He skims the one at the top of the dash through, _Eve Never Long_. It’s a one-shot. Plain; but at the same time the use of language is oddly melodic, like you could sing the text though it’s not even written in verse. And it’s very, _very_ well-written. Actually, once he’s finished, Gimli can’t help but wonder what on earth such a beautiful story is doing with only two meek comments. There should be a dozen more at least, especially considering the publication date (over a year ago).

All right, so it’s not _really_ what he’s had in mind. But they seem to be a good writer, and that’s got to mean something. So he goes back to the message and replies:

* * *

_Hello, greenleaf!_

_Thank you for your offer. I could send you the first chapter, if you’d like to have a look at it._

_Note that it’s not completed by a long shot though. It’s the start I’m having problems with; the middle chapters are more or less finished and I have the ending quite clear in my mind. What I need most is some input on the plot and characterization._

_Eagerly awaiting your response,_

_Power_of_Axes_

* * *

Classes are, as expected, quite boring. While he has never been very fond of geography, math is quite interesting as are foreign languages – well, parting Elfish perhaps, for it makes little sense – but neither takes place on Mondays.

The college of Erebor is relatively small, compared to the more famous Gondor High, and mainly Dwarves attend here. The occasional Man or Hobbit may be found though. Gimli has noticed that Fíli and Kíli particularly seem to like hanging out with the small group of Halflings attending; their company is quite pleasant actually; they are nowhere as strange as Elves.

No Elves attend the college of Erebor. There is this posh place in the west that most of them in the area go to, called Imladris High or something other.

“So,” says Thorin – a sort-of-friend of Gimli’s - when the copper-haired Dwarf takes his usual seat beside him.

He’s the son of a very important Dwarf in the area: none other than Thráin, son of Thrór, who is the President of the Lonely Mountain Gems Inc., Middle Earth’s largest producer of artifical diamonds.

As one can then foresee, Thorin is _very_ rich; he has people of both genders and several races seeking his company. He owns his own car, a house with a tremendous view over Erebor and he can point at practically _anything_ and own it within five minutes; not to mention he’s quite good looking. His eyes are deep and serious. A set of glittering stones are attached to his black braided beard almost every day. Even Elves ought to be impressed by that! But, Gimli isn't blinded by Thorin's impressive and supposedly majestic heritage. They went to kindergarten together after all.

“What have you been up to?” the dark-haired Dwarf asks. “I can’t seem to get into touch with you.”

“Nothing really,” he answers. Maybe Thorin tried calling him this weekend and he filtered the call away along with all those of Kíli’s, which he’d ignored. “The usual.”

While not as much of a ‘fanatic’ as himself, Thorin also is an avid tumblr blogger and has at enough followers to compete with even LadyGoldenWoods. (Even those who don’t know about tumblr know of _that_ name. There was some interview with her a year or so ago, in a famous fashion magazine due to her ‘perfect’ sense for fashion. Gimli hadn’t really engaged in the topic but everyone was abuzz about the matter.) He’s reblogged practically everything concerning the first movie release of There And Back Again.

And when Thorin had tried writing a one-shot (silly and badly written with enough grammatical mistakes to make Gimli want to tear off his beard) he’d received far too many praises and reblogs to count (72 comments the first day it was online. No, he didn’t check this up! Umm … well. Fair enough, he _might_ have spent that particular evening with a tab with KingUndertheMountain2746 constantly open. Just out of curiousity though!)

All right. So Gimli might be _somewhat_ jealous. Slightly.

A little bit.

Anyway, Thorin has no idea (or memory of) that Power_of_Axes is one of his 4000+ followers, a fact which Gimli is content with.

“Hm,” grunts Dwalin, who is often part of Thorin’s team which also is known as the Company. They have this group to which Gimli vividly tried to become a part of a couple of years back but once he was accepted, well, it didn’t matter that much anymore. “Well, doesn’t surprise me. You’re always kind of out of it.”

“I’m not _out of it_ ,” Gimli defends himself, arms crossing. “My leisure pursuit simply surpasses yours.”

“Ha, ha.” Dwalin’s guttural voice is dry. “Your humour utterly astonishes me.”

Any further conversation is cut off as the teacher arrives. Gimli turns away from his desk-mate and opens his books. But he can’t focus and when half-way through the lesson he glances at the diagram which has been drawn on the board, it makes no sense whatsoever. The teacher says something and everyone falls quiet.

From his seat right behind him, Nori nudges him with his foot. He startles. “Gimli! Mrs Goldberry asked you a question.”

“Hm?”

The teacher repeats, her usually sweet tender voice growing strained; but Gimli just stares for a moment, the words mulled and not reaching his ears. Everyone waits silently.

“The answer is, um – pi squared times two?” he guesses wildly. The doodles and small words in his notebook gives him no clue to what the answer might be, or even the question; he guesses the teacher won’t appreciate hearing _‘Prince+halfling ch. 12(?), desperate!sex in dungeon’._

“Um, Gimli,” murmurs Nori then. “We’re in Geography. You know that, right?” 

* * *

_Hi, Power_of_Axes_

_I’d be very interested! Please go ahead. I’d prefer you attach your chapter as a .doc file. My email is underthetrees@ardamail.com. Make sure to title it ‘Beta: Fanfiction’ or something along those lines, or the message may accidentally end up among the junk mail._

_Salutes,_

_greenleaf_

* * *

Now pressed with a deadline - having to actually  _finish_  the chapter to be able to send it - is something quite refreshing, despite being also stressful, and he manages to type out the first chapter at a rate which takes him by surprise. It does involve quite a lot of retypes and cursing and pulling at his beard, but he makes it, at long last. He does not usually set deadlines to his stories, since they aren’t typically this long; five to six chapters at most. 

And by the end of the week, it’s finished. Well, sort of. It’s rough, it’s a draft, but it’s ready to send.

He’s a bit on edge about having really a complete stranger read through something so frustratingly incomplete – it makes him feel oddly bare, as if he’d have nothing to hide. Should he really do this?

It’s not too late to back away.

But – oh, c’mon! He’s a Dwarf, not some flighty fairy. He can’t possibly back down!

* * *

To:  underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-01-22 21:10:03

**Beta help, 1st chapter**

_Hello, greenleaf!_

_Here you have chapter one. Finally written! However it is still a draft, mind. There is no hurry, so you needn’t stress. Please take your time with beta’ing, and good luck - and thank you beforehand,_

_Power_of_Axes_

* * *

As it turns out, greenleaf is a swift worker. Already after three or so hours, a message drops into his inbox and Gimli finds an attached .doc file. Slightly unsure of what to anticipate, he opens it.

And he’s greeted by red.

A _lot_ of red.

 

_Morning climbed over the hills and settled in the valley below. Its light made the white stone walls of the buildings appear pearly and white._ **Again? We’ve already made it clear that the walls are white. Sometimes a simple explanation can do it: but there are other adjectives as well do describe the state of the sun on the wall, if you so insist.** _The city, carved into the mountain itself, was already awake, servants scurrying from one corridor to another, busy with work. The sky was clear and it was quite warm for a spring day._

  
_Sunlight_ **More light! You need a different approach or people will get bored.** _fell upon the stone gates, tall and proud as they reflected the wealth of the city. Upon each side of the gates _ **(repetition)** _stood a large statue; cut out of the bare rock, finely chiselled down to the last detail by generations of Dwarves, as a testament over their power, their knowledge and their ultimate kingdom._

_They were wide open, as spring had come thawing away the cold snow of winter and soon, traders would come flooding with goods from far and wide to the famous market of Dale._

_All was calm. If a storm was coming, none were aware. None knew of the darkness which already was sweeping closer to the vale, step by step. None had heard its warning, chill wind coming from the north. No bells tolled. Not yet._

_It was going to be a good day; of this the young Dwarf Prince was sure. He had slept well and felt refreshed. But then, suddenly, the door was roughly opened as a page entered the chamber with a great amount of noise. The servant had always been loud and rather clumsy, not quite a good servant to be honest. (_ Insert new paragraph here? It would make sense with the flow.) _“Breakfast, sire!” the lad_ **For my part I find it unlikely that the prince would address the servant as ‘lad’, and since this is from his point of view, I think simply ‘boy’ would suffice.** _announced loudly, setting down an overfilled tray on the table. Then he saw the Prince as if for the first time, and exclaimed: “You’re dressed!”_

_“Yes. I sometimes wonder if you were dropped on your head when you were young, or if you simply were born that way,” responds the prince sarcastically._ **I find the sarcasm very out of character. The Prince is cold toward everyone, subjects and family at first (doesn’t start loosening up until meeting the Halfling in canon, remember?**   **The Prince would just grunt at the servant, or ignore him at first; he’s still not evolved as a character!** , _ignoring the hurt look on the servant’s face._

 

This goes on for the next seven-eight pages. Gimli finds his pulse speeding up with not just a little annoyance as he reads on, reluctantly so. A growing part of him just wants to shut laptop and throw it out of the window.  

None of his other betas had ever been this … this _exact_ in their taking apart of his texts. Nor this unforgiving. Were his heart less stout he’d probably start sobbing soon and become a total wreck and seek out the fridge. But he doesn’t.

Because he’s a Dwarf, and a very proud Dwarf at that; he shall endure.

Even if it HURTS.

By the end of the last paragraph, there is a comment added (also in red, bright and vicious):

 

**First off, your idea of the light-turning-dark plot works very well, but the dialogue in the start seems a bit off. What is its purpose? It doesn’t seem to add any suspense, merely confusion.**

**It seems that your writing style is somewhat jumbled. If you begin with detailed descriptions involving many adjectives, it’s best you keep to the same writing manner throughout.**

**After about two pages this smoothens out, I see; that’s good. Try sticking with that same tone all the way through the story.**

**The characterization improves greatly a few pages into the story. But you’d better go back and see over their actions and reactions from the start. And it’s too early for the Prince to start changing yet!**

**There are no major flaws grammar-wise. You may notice I have marked and copied a few sentences, and then tweaked within a parenthesis (page 3: line 2 and 10). Those aren’t many greatly important changes, but I think it could affect the story in a positive way. However, you are the writer and thus the boss.**

 

Right, greenleaf _had_ said he would be frank and honest, but still, this outright _crazy_ amount of red-marked comments stings quite badly and Gimli, stabbing viciously at the keyboard, opens their email thread starting to type in a rather angry message when it strikes him.

This is what a beta does. They are _meant_ to pick your story apart, despite your constant struggle, tooth and nail; then sew it back up half-way and hand back the needle and thread. And greenleaf _did_ say that “if I find something to be crap, I will tell you so.”

Still, there’s no need for greenleaf to be so bloody harsh! Gimli can think of a thing or two to say to them in the reply to. But, he takes a deep breath to quench the anger, before turning back to the Word document. He wants to finish this story, doesn’t he? Then, he needs his beta’s help. Simple as that.

 

**Most importantly you must decide early on from which point of view you are telling this story. Now you seem a bit unsure. Are we going to see this merely from one character’s POV or are you going to switch between multiple ones? Decide straight off; otherwise you will only confuse your readers.**

**Otherwise, great job! I’m really interested in the development. Somehow, I got a feeling that the ending won’t be what a reader would predict at this stage. Suspense! Love it!**

**-      greenleaf**

 

In the end, once he’s looked through the document, cleaned it up and thoughtfully made the corrections that greenleaf suggested, it _does_ look better, however reluctant as he may be to admit it.

Darn.

Is it an Elf?

Gimli finds himself clicking his way to greenleaf’s tumblr, once again skimming over the dashboard. Not only are they insanely fast at beta reading, they’ve updated their dash a thousand times over in the last hour as well. Loads more pictures of kittens and knitting patterns and very red (alternatively bright blue or green) painted fingernails.

Again, everything is annoyingly vague. They could be Mannish. Some 17 year old girl or guy – but then again, the Mannish folk have always been weird about painted fingernails vs. gender (many tend to stare at any female Dwarves passing by as if unable to comprehend their glorious beards. Honestly! Men!), so this is most likely a girl.

Oh.

 _Darn_.

He’s being corrected by a Mannish girl who likes _kittens_. By Aulë, how could they be doing such a good job with a tumblr such as _that_?


	4. Part 3

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-01-23 20:01:01

**Subject: Re: re: Beta, 1st chapter**

_Greetings greenleaf,_

_I got the document you sent me; it was a swift job indeed! You’re **very** forthright, I must say. So much red! It’s rather startling, to be honest. I hadn’t thought it was _ that _dreadful._

_/Power_of_Axes_

* * *

He’s on the phone again. A business call, probably – that’s usually when he frowns that much; and he isn’t pacing. Normally when speaking about private matters he does, as if his voice isn’t enough a let-out of energy.

Legolas can’t really remember ever seeing his father smiling when on the phone. He’s always rather impersonal then. Distant. Cold.

He bites his lip, trying to quench the impatience boiling inside of him. But his father has been on the phone for the last hour and only exchanged a swift greeting since he got home from work today – late, as per usual – and looked disapproving at the Haradrim takeaway which Legolas had ordered as dinner. But nothing else. No small talk. No inquiring of how the day’s been or even the weather. No warm hugs or. Or anything like that. Just …

The young Elf stands on the threshold, utterly still like a hunter on alert. The moment his father lowers the phone from his ear, he pounces.

“Adar, could I come with you to town tomorrow? Aragorn wants to meet at –“

Thranduil sighs. “My schedule is far too busy for me to drive you around.”

“I could take a taxi from your office. _Please_ , Ada.”

The older Elf looks at him sternly, and Legolas quietly crosses his fingers, _hoping_ …

“Fine. But you must get back to my office on your own.”

_Yes!_

“I will, don’t worry.”

As soon as he’s able, he rushes for his cell-phone and sends a text to Aragorn. Hopefully the twins can meet with them too, and Haldir maybe. And he could forget about his father’s annoyance and stress for a while and unwind, even if his Ada would be so mad when he comes back late, missing the drive home and leaving no excuses. His ada doesn’t leave excuses when _he_ returns late – why should he owe him those, then, all the time?

* * *

To:  G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-01-24 09:22:25

**Subject: Re: re: re: Beta, 1st chapter**

_Greetings Power_of_Axes,_

_I did say I would be candid. If it displeases you, I could easily quit. There is more than one beta out there, and there may be someone more suited to your tastes. But I believe your story must be given a chance to be truly up to par. In core it’s really good; it just needs some polishing up._

_/greenleaf_

* * *

The sudden bluntness of the message actually makes him stagger. Then, a smirk spreads across his face. He isn’t going to let the beta quit on him this fast! Mayhap they are a sensitive person, or just don’t like being criticised. Either way it’s ironic that they are such an effective beta reader.

Feeling more energetic or effective than he has been for months, Gimli dives into writing in frenzy, feeling more passionate about it than he has for a very long time; the words are spewed out of his fingertips.

He’s going to finish this.

* * *

To:  underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-01-25 21:10:03

**Subject: Re: re: re: Beta – 2nd chapter (.doc attached)**

_Hello greenleaf,_

_You needn’t quit! Actually, I find your snarkiness quite amusing._

_Don’t chew this one apart, will you? And you need not to lecture me on the simple use of punctuation. But mere Mortals do make mistakes._

_/Axes have all the power_

_PS. Yes; I am aware that snarkiness is not a word found in any of the dictionaries today or any day in the past, but it applies to you fine. DS._

* * *

Legolas can’t help but grin when reading the last line. There’s just something about this person that makes them likeable and he doesn’t take offence, though if a total stranger told him that he ought to feel some kind of sting at least…!

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-01-27 04:02:11

**Subject: Re: re: re: re: Beta – 2nd chapter**

_Hello Axes_of_Power,_

_I am glad to hear it. Honestly, it is at this point most writers quit on_ me _, thinking I’m being too blunt in my analysis, and they take offense. I’m sorry if you’ve done likewise. I did wonder if I had gone too far, but you also said you were quite unsure, especially about the beginning of the story; thus I went all-in, hoping to help you improve as much as possible._

_Just skimming through your second chapter I can see that you have already amended some common blunders. No punctuation errors for one!_

_Good luck with your writing,_

_Greenleaf_

_PS. I quite resent that remark. You make no sense. DS._

_PPS. What is it with you and axes? I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but you seem fond of them in excess, which heavily implies that you must be a Dwarf. DDS._

* * *

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-01-28 18:43:21

**Subject: Re: re: re: re: re: Beta – 2nd chapter**

_Greetings Greenleaf,_

_I see. Well, I’m glad you’ve decided to stick with me too. To be honest, I haven’t really bothered with a beta reader before, not to this extent._

_But I understand why people may have thought you to be too on. But it’s what you’re meant to do, right? Ignore us poor writers’ screams as you tear our work apart._

_Anyway, I’m sending you chapter 3 and 4 in a package shortly. YES, I’ve finished them both. My effectiveness astonishes even me._

_Yours sincerely,_

_A Very Proud Axe-Owner_

_PS. You know very well what I mean! Also, do not question my punctuality. DS._

_PPS. Aren’t you aware of that it is rude to draw such early conclusions? I may be of the Mannish race, or even an Elf – what does it matter what interests I have? I’ll have you know, I own quite a collection of axes. And I know how to use them! DDS._

* * *

“Gimli! Breakfast!”

With a groan he rolls over, opening his eyes a crack to blearily glare at the bedside alarm. 07:42. Already! Muffling a yawn he grabs the nearest pillow and covers his head with it. It’s too bright and early. Five more minutes. Just five minutes.

“Gimli!” his father’s voice comes again, more aggravated this time, bouncing up the stairs like a hammer. “You’re going to be late!”

Right, it’s Monday. Ugh. Wasn’t today that test? He’s completely forgotten it until now. Well, not that not much studying would have taken place anyhow; he has been far too preoccupied this weekend, writing and keeping up with his beta reader’s ridiculous conversations. Quickly their emails had escalated and Gimli can’t recall ever using that many _post scriptum_ -notes when talking with anybody, even less a person he’s never met. It seems Greenleaf is quite good at multi-tasking. Which is rather amusing and also a bit annoying because they keep being so smug about their effectiveness, whereas Gimli is starting to realize that he needs more sleep.

“Gimli!”

Maybe he should call in sick. Pretend to have gotten down with the flue. Yeah. Thorin – no, Dwalin maybe, could take some notes for him, if necessary. Just for a day.

Footsteps thunder up to his door and suddenly his room is flooded with even more light. His father tugs off the pillow from his head. “Da!” Gimli cries. “Just five minutes.”

“You’ve had your five minutes. Now, up you go.”

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-02-01 21:00:09

**Subject: [beta] New thread because the other one got too cluttered**

_Dear “Proud Owner of Many Axes,”_

_Glad to hear your writing goes so well! I shall keep my marker at the ready. (At least figuratively speaking.) However, I worry for your safety. I mean, with all those axes. Don’t fall on them. It would hurt (you)._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Greenleaf_

_PS. I hereby pronounce your middle name to be Wart, as in Stalwart if you hadn’t already figured. DS._

_PPS. The axe can never beat the power of the bow! I take archery and sparring lessons in my spare time, besides writing of course. How about you? (_ _Note that I may be asking this question merely to find out if it would be fair to ask for a sparring match if we ever met.)_ _Also – an Elf? Hardly! I’ve never met an Elf who likes axes, in any manner or form. And your wording does not fit with that of an Elf either. It seems exceedingly implausible. DDS._

* * *

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-02-06 17:18:19

 **Subject: Re:** **[beta] New thread because the other one got too cluttered**

_Greetings Greenleaf,_

_Just saying that the next few chapters (6-10 – yes, I do not lie! I DID IT.) will be sent to you shortly. Also I saw this tumblr blog and the first thing I thought of was you – must be the cats. What is it with you cats anyway? That sort of fondness cannot be healthy._

_Yours sincerely,_

_The Unquestionable Power of Axes_

_PS. “Wart”? Heavens, even my cousins could come up with something more original than that, and that’s saying something! DS._

_PPS. Have you never seen these twitter updates by CelebRimboR_Forgerer1? (#narvi #doorsofmoria) They quite crush your theory, dear Greenleaf. DDS._

* * *

Then suddenly, one day, the chain of messages are broken by an outsider, an oddity, and Gimli has to double-check who the sender is – already he’s so unused to receiving anything from anybody else than Greenleaf. It’s been days, no, weeks now. And already it feels completely natural to expect if not an update on progress then at least a snarky comment in his inbox every morning. But it’s not an update or snarky comment or a link to a picture of kittens.

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: dw.alin.the.master@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-02-10 20:19:59

**Subject: Request from the Mountain King**

_Greetings Brother-in-Arms,_

_Upon Thorin’s request, I am sending this message to you. Apparently as the Company’s Official Researcher it falls to your hands to find some information on Hobbiton and someone named Biggens or Baggins, or something similar._

_Do not ask me how, when or who and especially not WHY. Thorin’s requests cannot be questioned._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_The Master Dwarf_

* * *

Dwalin? Upon Thorin’s request? Sounds _exceedingly_  formal.

Well, _this_ is Thorin and Dwalin; they’re both sporadic in their contacts with him, the former even more than the latter. Dwalin along with Fíli and Kíli make, together with Thorin, more or less the core of the Company.

And Gimli remembers being mighty annoyed with them as he had, year after year, tried becoming part of them. It had taken five years – five! As if he’s some immature kid, not old enough to join! They’re bloody persistent. At least Thorin is. And still they’re all quite secretive even if he is part of the Company now. Then again, they socially work on another plane than himself.

Hobbiton though? Sounds definitely Hobbitish – how typical they’d ask _him_ to find out such obvious information! Since when is Thorin interested in Halflings anyway?

A quick search tells him it’s a town in the western region of the county Shire. A Hobbit town – _obviously_. Then this other name, well, frankly Gimli doesn’t care that much, too preoccupied in this moment. He texts Thorin the link to Ardawiki. Because honestly, he has better things to do in his spare time. (‘Official Researcher’, indeed!)

* * *

To: dw.alin.the.master@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-02-10 23:45:03

**Subject: Re: Request from the Mountain King**

_Greetings Master Dwalin,_

_I’ll look into it. When I find the time. Which isn’t often, for I am a busy Dwarf. Anyway, I shall try, as is my duty to the Company._

_On the matter of Hobbiton, I’ve never heard of the place. I’ll see what I can do but you may tell Thorin there is something called Ardawiki. You know, that one with a “search” function._

_Cheers,_

_Gimli_

_PS. Tell Thorin to check his messages. There is meant to be a link. Very straightforward; it’s impossible to get lost. DS._

* * *

Now, he’d better return to the fic. Where was he? Yeah…

 

 

_Many days and many nights had passed since then. But they still remembered it all too vividly._

_The sky was dark and hovering over them, compact and with few stars, much like a cavern wall far beyond the reach of hands of Mortals. Torch in hand, they slowly approached the doorway. From far within, a slight gleaming light reached them ..._

* * *

“You can’t!” Legolas splutters. “Ada!”

His father arches an eyebrow. Anyone not used to the expression on his face might have been terrified, but Legolas has seen that look many times and counters it with a sharp glare, holding it steadfast. “It is clear to me you are forsaking more important duties such as schoolwork. You’ll have it back in four weeks, ion.”

“Four _weeks_?!”

And there is no internet cafés anywhere nearby either … not that he could easily get into the town of Mithlond from this far out into the middle of nowhere, anyway. And everything he’s writing and betaing is on that computer! His father can’t just take it away without warning! “Ada, I apologized for the accident – I did, and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snuck out with the twins. But please – we did nothing illegal or dangerous or anything! Ada -“

“See, you are far too attached to that thing. Do not make that face at me! If you work hard and well you _might_ get it back earlier than planned.”

Might. _Might_. That’s not even the shadow of a promise, and Legolas grimaces, fighting all urges to throw an outright tantrum – he can act much worse than this. He can. But he shouldn’t. His ada is right; if he gets madder, his ada will get angrier as well and the consequences worse and more far-fetching. He’s not been grounded _yet_ , for one, nor forbidden from visiting the twins or any other of his friends.

Slowly breathing out, in, out, he steps back but his shoulders remain tense. If he works hard, his ada said – but he always tries to work hard!

Umm, maybe not _that_ hard with history or maths … but surely his ada could understand that! He’s not the worst of the worst. He’s not out late every night and he doesn’t torment his tutors (too badly).

He hadn’t meant to sneak out. Truly, he hadn’t. It wasn’t planned. But he was just so bored and the walls were creeping closer, ever the closer around him, trapping him like a bird in a cage, and the twins’ offer was far too tempting to resist. Why could his father realize this? Why couldn’t he _understand?_

“Legolas,” his Ada continues and Legolas’ sharp eyes follow the trail of the elder Elf’s hand, as it lays the laptop in the safe, underneath a pile of important papers, and the lid is closed and the lock turned. The key hidden in a drawer of Thranduil’s desk, where only the very daring Elladan and Elrohir would dare to pry around – but the Wood-Elf isn’t that stupid. “Just work well and hard.”

 _Like me,_ is the echo. Legolas hates that. He bets his father has never heard of the word ‘relax’. Or ‘early’ in the sentence _coming back early_.

But he bites his lip and sighs and says, “Yes, Adar.”

It’s just for four weeks; the blink of an eye for an Elf. And he’s got his notebooks and a good memory, and if all goes to hell, he could probably call Aragorn and plead for him to pass by with his newly-bought but already run-down Narsil and pick him up; and they’d go to town and hide for a few days while his father lets off steam in private.

“And your phone.”

Great. _Juuust_ great.

* * *

The silence is quenching. Like drowning in a bucket of icy cold water.

Gimli distracts himself with homework and friends and cousins, but still, he can’t ignore it. There’s not a single word. Has Greenleaf found some extremely horrible flaw in the fic that they’ve suddenly decided to quit, without a word?

That just doesn’t seem right.

* * *

Estel curls up in his lap and Legolas gently pats his beloved cat’s back, weaving his fingers through the thick soft fur. Estel gives off a content purr of satisfaction. At least he’s still got him. Probably it is because the cleaning maid is so effective his father doesn’t realize how much hairs end up everywhere.

He ends up spending all night on the phone – the regular one with a chord - with Arwen, locked in his room (the chord didn’t like the closed door), helplessly whining about his situation when, really, he’s behaving pathetically and he really wishes he could just stop sounding like a five year old that’s been dragged away from a candy store. But it feels kind of good though. And Arwen listens well and sends hugs and comforts him a little (even if she also mentions Aragorn every five minutes).

“Listen,” she says, “everything’ll sort out. I’ll have Ada talk with him.” At which, naturally, Legolas protests; he’s not a child anymore and to have Elrond pleading for his case (well maybe not exactly _pleading_ …) is just too embarrassing a thought.

Briefly he wonders if his father’s noticed. His emails. Something else like that, giving away his frequent new contact with Wart. Has he left the laptop open and unguarded sometime? He’s pretty sure he hasn’t, but his ada could have found a way. Is that is? Does he disapprove and instead of just saying so…?

Has he found out what he’s writing?

Legolas goes cold at the thought. If Thranduil sees what exactly his son is writing and reading with such fervour, he’s going to have a fit. He’ll go _berserk_. Because it might imply far too much about things that Legolas rather wouldn’t talk with him about, at least not until he’s moved out of the house; it would just be too awkward, if his father doesn’t…doesn’t accept it.

“Hey, Legolas, are you listening? You’re spacing out on me,” the soft female suddenly startles him back to awareness.

“Yes, yes, I’m here.”

“Look, as I said, he’s being unfair but he could have a point. My brothers aren’t being that very good an influence on you –“

“Hey! You’re their sister!” Legolas splutters. “You, if anyone-“

“-should be immune, which I am.” There’s a flutter of fabric and rustle of movement, she’s shifting the phone on the other end; maybe she’s moving to sit on the couch so she can paint her toe-nails. She does that quite a lot. “As I said, you’d better just stay low for a while, don’t get riled up, don’t try sneaking out. I know, I know, it’s boring as hell but you’ll survive. If my brothers can survive being grounded for two weeks, then you _can_ survive being online for a month. I know it. Besides you’re not grounded and you can visit me whenever you want. (Though I doubt your father will drive you anywhere.) Honestly, Legolas, it’s not that big a deal, when you think about it.”

He can’t stop the whine escaping from his throat in time. “But my _writing_ , Arwen! I’m in the middle of this huge project and I need to keep up to date!”

“Project huh? I haven’t seen you post anything this year at all. You’ve been very inactive as of late.”

They do that, check out each other’s profiles sometimes and ask how things are going writing-wise. They’re not exactly into the same fandoms but they like giving each other advice and support. Besides, it’s one thing they truly share that none of their other friends are involved in. Neither the twins nor Aragorn write fiction – the former are probably too busy trying to ‘devilize’ their younger foster brother for that, a thing which amuses everyone except Elrond. And maybe Arwen, though Legolas has always thought she likes the ‘rough, tough, save the world’ kind of Men.

“It’s, um, I’m just beta-reading something,” he says. In his lap, Estel twists, apparently sensing its owner’s rising agitation and he presses up against the Elf’s chin, but the action which might have been meant as soothing only manages to make Legolas’ face itch.

“Oh,” Arwen says, bemusedly. “Is it terrible, or just terrible?”

“Actually it’s rather good. Surprisingly good even. The plot is perf–” Suddenly aware of the excitement in his voice, his face flushes in embarrassment. “It’s, err, coming along nicely,” he finishes lamely.

There’s a mysterious hint in Arwen’s tone as she answer, as if she’s realizing something which he is now. “Really now? You’ve always been so picky that people have usually no patience for you. I’m surprised you haven’t been kicked out yet from this project.”

“I am painfully aware of that. But I’m _not_ rude!” he adds, remembering how the previous try at beta-reading had turned out. Arwen still teases him for that.

Then she sounds dangerously alike to her father Elrond, and Legolas almost giggles at the image it causes him, but he’s wise enough to keep quiet. “Indeed.”

“I am _not_!"

* * *

A week passes.

And then another, and then a few days more.

In the evenings, he writes, fighting to tie together loose threads, and in the days he tires keeping up in class and not fall asleep, especially not during the ones with Professor Grey, whose courses almost no one can pass. He could probably smother delinquent students with his big beard.

Then, when nearing the three week-mark, there has been nothing but complete and utter silence from Greenleaf and Gimli starts to wonder if anything’s happened. Not that he is personally worried, or anything. Just curious, that’s all, given Greenleaf’s earlier swiftness and constant contact.

So he scrapes together a slightly awkward message. He doesn’t want to be too personal or seem worried or anything the like, they don’t really know one another and he doesn’t want to be a bother. Just, he’s checking on a comrade-in-arms, that’s all.

* * *

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-02-25 20:34:59

 **Subject: Re:** **re** : **[beta] New thread because the other one got too cluttered**

_Greetings Leaf which is Green (really what kind of name is that?),_

_Your silence is unusual and somewhat disturbing. You haven’t tripped on one of your arrows during archery practice have you? As amusing as that is to picture, I would advise against it – archery, that is. Axe-throwing and even sparring is a much better and more suitable sport._

_Wondering what’s holding you up,_

_Axe-bearer_

_PS. You’re clearly running out of ideas and adjectives. DS._

_PPS. More mentions, in case you haven’t completely forgotten yet, with pictures, here. Evidence as clear as a cloudless sky! DDS._


	5. Part 4

It takes three weeks before he gets his computer back. He could have used internet cafés, were there any nearby, but he lives literarily in the middle of nowhere and without a driver’s license he’s mostly stuck in the mansion, fidgety and incredibly bored. He must be driving poor old butler Galion insane. Not intentionally … of course. Just, he’s bored and Aragorn has only been able to drop by once to see him during these three weeks. That’d been last Wednesday, and the young Man has just been able to stay for a little while and their antics hadn’t really soothed his ada.

(In retrospect, Legolas realized that going out in the woods with a scruffy Mortal and be gone for several hours only to return dragging mud into the pristine white house wasn’t a very good idea.)

By then, Arwen has started nearly every one of their conversations with an invisible eye-roll and a sigh, muttering about ‘boys always bitching about their miserable lives’ and Legolas would have felt wounded if he didn’t know her so well. Besides, he always lets her complain about Aragorn who is, in her opinion, ‘kind of hot but honestly he needs a haircut ASAP’.

“Think of it as a personal record. A positive learning experience, or something,” she says into the phone that night, and Legolas feels content curled up in the sofa with a hot cup resting in his hand, Estel purring in his lap and the half-finished chapter 17 on the screen in front of him. He supports the phone with his left hand as he eyes the chapter through.

“Learning experience,” he answers, pausing as the mouse hovers over the sentence _And the dwarves toiled under the hot sun, hour upon hour_ – “Yeah. I’ve. Learnt a lot. Like how often you need to sharpen the pencil when working on paper.”

“Multi-tasking again huh?” Arwen remarks, noticing his slightly delayed replies. She knows him well enough to be certain. The tapping against the keyboard may give it away, though. “You know, it kills quite a lot of brain-cells, doing that. Gives you no focus and yadda-yadda, as the scientist say.”

“Oh don’t worry, I haven’t got that many to lose anyway.” He grins and she knows even if she can’t see him, and he’s sure she’s smirking too.

“Too true. So how’s it going – this _project_ of yours?”

“Really good!” Legolas says, grinning and taking a hot sip, “I’m on chapter seventeen now and really, it’s not just developing into a story, it’s developing into _epicness_ and-“

Arwen groans. “Oh no, I know that tone; it’s the ‘I’ve had coffee with sugar and I’m excited so now I’m going to babble like on high the next forty-five minutes’-tone. I’m too tired for that.”

“Hey! It’s only half past eight.”

“Very well; for a friend, I shall endure. _If_ you’ll accompany me to the Rangers' tomorrow. I’ll come over and fetch you, before your father can object.”

“Ada’ll be _furious_ , Arwen! He’ll – he’ll grown horns! _Literal_ horns! Like balrog horns, with fire sprouting out of them!” he cries in a (slightly) over-dramatic way. She just laughs. Alas, the power she holds over him! At least she has manners unlike her brothers. His Ada actually _approves_ of his friendship with her and Thrandruil has never glared darkly at her in the same manner which he’s glared at the twins.

“We’ll just make sure you’re not caught then. It’ll be fine; you’ve got me looking after you.”

Well, to be fair, it doesn’t seem that fun to go with Arwen with that bar where Aragorn works part-time and watch the two cast longing glances at each other for hours, but - for a friend. Besides the two better get a leg over soon. They’re incredibly dim the both of them. Legolas can’t see why Arwen doesn’t just grab the guy and shags him. Honestly, he’s kind and good-looking (even if he does forget to wash his hair sometimes. Apparently trying to look ‘scruffy like a proper walking-in-the-wild Ranger’, which is ridiculous.)

“Fine, fine,” he sighs. “Now let me finish this. The story’s awesome! I can’t wait till it’s published.”

“So you can gloat even more,” Arwen concludes with a chuckle.

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-02-29 02:19:24

 **Subject: Re: re: re:** **[beta] New thread because the other one got too cluttered**

_Dear Wart,_

_I am working on the chapters you sent me earlier, in case you fear I’m growing indolent. The absence hasn’t been_ that _long. There was, well, an accident which caused some implications and I had no access to reach you or beta for some time. But hopefully no such interruption should happen again (at least for some time…)._

_And no, I haven’t tripped on my arrows! What kind of idiot would even do such a thing?_

_Hugs,_

_Greenleaf_

_PS. Then you have never met The Twins of Doom. DS._

_PPS. That hardly counts._ Everyone _knows that they’ve been BFFs all since that that incident at the Moria convent back in 2002! DDS._

* * *

The first time he adds the _post scriptum_ -note, he hesitates only for a millisecond. Then he thinks: _Oh, why-ever not?_ Wart, aka Power_of_Axes, seems to be good-humoured.

He doesn’t take ill. In fact, it quickly moves on from PS:s to PPS:s and even the occasional PPPS, quite often with some sarcastic remark or off-topic link (Legolas takes a particular liking to linking to pictures of kittens, much to the writer’s disgruntlement. But he’ll convert Wart yet.)

From that point on, their communication swiftly starts rolling. It’s the most amusing contact with an author he’s had as a beta. Some had been so whiny and bratty, which no amount of patience could uphold; others just plainly agreed with everything he did without argument and that made work quite dreary in the end: but Wart scrutinizes his work just as closely as he does his own. If there’s anything he doesn’t agree with, he says it at once, and they can keep arguing about it for days, rapidly filling up one email thread after the other. And then they talk about other random, unrelated things too,

It’s kind of nice. Comforting. Wart isn’t just some writer in the same fandom as he. They’re a _friend_.

And sure, he’s very close to Arwen, certainly, and to Aragorn and the twins and even Haldir (on his better days), but they don’t hang out so much without him and their emails are never these amusing and _engaging_. That they go to Imladris High and talk about people he hasn’t heard of doesn’t really help – the twins are on the local soccer team and Haldir doesn’t share his interests or taste in music. Arwen’s conversations are warm and soothing and he values them dearly but, but – this new person …

Is it normal to feel this way? Maybe it is. But it’s odd. He’s talking online before and met people both good and bad there. Something about Wart just … draws him in.

And his friends don’t watch the shows that he does or can discuss books with the same fervour. They might watch an episode of Doctor Who with him if he kindly asks, but they wouldn’t enjoy a marathon. They’d not share these lengthy discussions about worm-hole theories and silly subplots and odd pairings like he does with Wart. In these few weeks he’s grown closer to the axe-loving writer than anyone, save perhaps Arwen, but still it’s not quite the same.

It’s also kind of frightening, knowing that – because, by the Valar, he doesn’t even know their real _name_!

* * *

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com   
SA 2013-02-29 02:19:24

 **Subject: Re: re: re: re** **[beta] New thread because the other one got too cluttered**

_Ah, so you are alive, Greenleaf!_

_I am quite relieved. Recruiting a new beta would have been an exasperating process. Anyhow, in your absence I have been working my backside off and thus here you have a whole zip file attached, with junk which I now shall dump upon you. Have fun with that!_

_Cheers,_

_I AM NOT A WART. Your ideas, endearing as they may seem, are quite ridiculous._

_PS. They do sound quite ominous, those twins. I believe it would be in both of our best interest in never letting them meet my cousins; I’m sure you agree. DS._

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-03-02 15:22:01

**Subject: Re: re: re More clutter. Because I want to, OK?**

_Hello Wart,_

_Does writing proceed as it should? (Yes, that is a stern look being sent your way.) Just checking!_

_I’m having a look at the latest chapters you’ve sent me as soon as I get the time. They’re quite a pile, however I wouldn’t say they’re junk!_

Legolas pauses. Hesitating just a little. They’ve never really spilled that much about their private lives before. Still…what harm could it possibly do?

_Since graduation is this year I am finding myself rather held up by numerous essays and other works to finish. How is everything going on your end of the line?_

_Hugs,_

_Greenleaf_

_PS. Your signature grows inaner by each passing day. Are you quite aware of this? DS._

* * *

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-03-02 22:34:01

**Subject: Re: re: re: re: More clutter. Because I want to, OK?**

_Greetings, Greenleaf!_

_You attend your 13 th year as well then, huh? Yeah, the schedule is growing more and more cluttered. However I am dividing my time rather well between studying and writing, in my own opinion anyway. _

_(Am also sending you chapters 18 shortly on that other (slightly more serious) email thread.)_

_Beware of the punctuation monsters and the griffins (they could eat you in your sleep)!_

_Cheers,_

_Powerful, Non-Crazy Wielder of Axes_

_PS. It hosts an air of novelty that yours cannot even begin to shadow! DS._

_PPS. Concerning PS: You are a snark. Period. DDS._

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-03-03 01:22:43

**Subject: Re: re: re: re: re: More clutter. Because I want to, OK?**

_Hello Wart,_

_(Yes, Wart. It is after all your name.)_

_Yeah, I’m finishing my last year. I’m home-schooled, my father has hired a couple of tutors for me; though they think I’m crazy (well, maybe not that exact wording) since I want to attend public school (especially old Galion). But all my friends go there and it is so dull to be stuck here at home. What about you?_

_And what on Arda do you mean by “slightly more serious”?!! THIS THREAD IS MORE SERIOUS THAN THE LAST ALLIANCE._

_Hugs,_

_Greenleaf_

_PS. My shadow can pretty easily overwhelm yours. DS._

_PPS. Again you make no sense. DDS._

* * *

It has become a habit to after school settle by the computer, read through his notes and draft the next parts of the story – sometimes whole pages, at other times just a few paragraphs at most. The story starts to take shape, looking more like it should. The plot makes more sense now and the characters have gained a new depth. They are controlling the story as much as he; neither too much nor too little.

Then there are Greenleaf’s red comments popping up here and there, constantly keeping him in check. But among them, he notices after a while, are words in green. They are light and full of praise. And as time wears on, they grow more and more common. But the red remains: strict and unforgiving, never letting him to start slacking.

Gimli starts to realize there might be a light at the end of the tunnel, after all.

* * *

“But, Adar –“

“No more objections. I told you to begin packing an hour ago. And you are _not_ bringing that cat! I have spoken with Mrs Mark and her husband; you may go to her house this afternoon and drop off the fur-ball.”

“Don’t talk about Estel like that! I could stay at home,” he edges, meeting the stern gaze. “I’m old enough! And I swear I’ll study hard every day, the tutors can come over and make sure to -“

“I am not ignorant as to what happened last time I left you home alone, ion nîn,” Thranduil cuts in sharply. “This discussion is over.”

His ears go red at the memory. Inviting over the twins had seemed a good idea, at the time. He’d never thought they’d bring so much whisky or attempt to redecorate the bathroom. Honestly. And that thing with his daerada’s antique armour had just been an _accident_. A hundred times he’s apologized, and surely his Ada should realize that it shouldn’t matter that much now? It was over a year ago since it happened!

“But – that was an accident! I’m sorry, I’ve told you, I’m sorry – _please,_ Adar -”

The door clicks shut.

Sighing, he turns to the open pack lying on the bed, desolate and empty in his resistance.

* * *

But then he finds another message in his inbox; silently urging for his attention.

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-03-15 19:05:59

**Subject: Important!!**

_Dear Wart,_

_I’m afraid I’ll be unavailable for a while. My father’s going overseas on business and I’m obliged to go with him. This means I’ll be unable to beta anything._

_I was wondering what deadline date you have set for the fic? I’m sorry for this inconvenience, especially if you’re in a hurry. But if there’s any crisis you could text me; my number is in the bottom of this message._

_Now I really got to pack. We leave port early tomorrow morning. I **should** be back before the end of March/beginning of  April but am not sure and can make no promises._

_Good luck with writing! Don’t make any silly errors. And be careful with your axes, you might cut yourself, and that would be horribly inopportune._

_Hugs,_

_Greenleaf  
My number is (+020)033-02938402._

_PS. How long have we had this discussion? It’s rather silly. Snarkiness is not a word, dear Wart. DS._

_PPS. I concede. You must be no other than a Dwarf – it explains **everything**! DDS._

* * *

Gimli is abruptly stuck by the fact that he knows essentially _nothing_ about Greenleaf. He doesn’t even know their real name; not their race, not their gender … not their age.

But assuming by the message, they should be around the same age. If Greenleaf was an adult, they’d probably not be ‘obliged’ to follow their father overseas on business (what business?). And judging by his tumblr blog – which for some reason, despite Greenleaf seeming quite busy with beta reading, constantly is updated with loads of reblogs with pictures of kittens and odd knitting patterns and second-hand clothing – they _should,_ logically, be around the same age (even if they’re totally odd) – but then, it’s difficult to know. Especially if they're Mannish.

But where do they live? Does going overseas mean that maybe their father is heading for the Isles of Númenor? They are quite known for their abundant businesses and large banks, equivalent of those found in the heart of Gondor. Maybe that’s were Greenleaf is from – Gondor?

They could be from Gondor, or any other part of the world. Gimli has no idea. Maybe Common isn’t their first language and they’re really from the other side of the globe.

The **reality** that this person, whose name he doesn’t even know, has grown so close to him in this short while – the reality crashes suddenly down on him so frighteningly clear, like a bucket of ice square on the forehead.

This person may be hundreds, even thousands of miles away, far across oceans and mountains and little green hills, far off where Gimli can’t see. But their text-based bantering lightens his heart and they’ve helped him out overwhelmingly much in return for nothing, and their frequent emails make it feel like they’re always close by. He doesn’t know their name. He’s never seen their face or heard their voice. Yet they make him happier than he’s ever been.

His father has remarked at it; probably just glad that his son smiles more, usually otherwise so quiet and secretive. Also Fíli and Kíli have noticed. He’s pretty certain that they have made up various theories on his growing happiness (every theory involving awkwardly large amounts of nakedness) – hopefully his father will never hear about _that_.

Chewing his bottom lip, finding it suddenly difficult to think straight, he clicks Reply _._ He hesitates for a moment, hands hovering above the keyboard. What is he going to say? What _should_ he say?

The words come staggering, slightly hesitant:

_Hello Greenleaf,_

_Don’t worry. I’ve planned on publishing in November or later (albeit your effectiveness has spurred me on greatly!) – I am in no hurry, don’t get stressed up. You may though find yourself buried under a pile of new chapters to beta upon your return._

_Good luck with your journey! Are you going to the Númenor isles, maybe? I’ve visited them once or twice._

_Don’t let your snarkiness sink the ship as you go, will you? Then it would force me to search for a new beta and such an occurrence would annoy me most greatly._

_And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!_

_Gimli  
(I find no reason why not to use our proper names anymore)_

_PS. I’m on my way applying this word to the dictionaries throughout the whole of Middle Earth, I’ll have you know! I shall shout it out from the tallest towers ever built! I have fairly good contacts. I DO NOT LIE. DS._

_PPS. I’ll let you keep go on guessing. It’s quite amusing watching you (well, hypothetically at least) strangle yourself in annoyance. DDS._

* * *

There is no answer next morning. And not the day after. Well, of course not; Greenleaf had said as much in the message.

Despite knowing that, the silence is unsettling.

After two days, unable to wait any longer (every fibre of his being itching as if craving to be released from a prison) Gimli sends a short; ‘Everything going well on the other side of the ocean? /Gimli’, to the number he had been given.

For the remainder of that day, he keeps glancing at his cell-phone every five minutes. Each time it vibrates and he picks it up, he only finds himself disappointed, as it’s only one of his cousins (Kíli sounds rather drunk. Then again, it _is_ Saturday.), and once Thorin asking if he had taken any notes during that History lesson last Friday and please could he send a copy over?

(Gimli hadn’t taken any notes.)

That evening he lacks any muse to write, so he curls up in front of the DVD – his father is out in the workshop still – and settles to re-watch his favourite Star Wars film.

But, it’s kind of…lonely. And it strikes him as odd. He’s liked solitude before, but now, he sort of wants to have someone sitting beside him; commenting the best parts alongside him and laughing with him, and crying with him and raving at the screen when he does. Now there’s just silence and a cold sofa, and a silent buzzing tapping gently against his ears in the middle of a heated blasters vs. lightsabers battle.

Wait.

Buzzing?

Awkwardly he scrambles through his pockets until he finds the source. The small screen blinks to life: **You have 1 new message(s)**.

Ah! Finally!

‘Hello, Wart,’ the message reads. Gimli (although he would never admit it aloud) is too relieved to be annoyed at the nickname. ‘Sorry for not answering earlier. Got held up. Everything is well, for me at least. Father is angry though, the business talks aren’t going so well I guess. I don’t know when I’ll be back. How is the writing going? I hope you’re not slacking off.’

‘Me, slacking off? Never!’

The reply arrives after a few minutes.

‘Good.’ At this Gimli imagines Greenleaf to be smiling, but at the same time it’s difficult since he has no idea what their face looks like. _‘_ It’s kind of boring here. Mostly I’m stuck at the hotel. Was allowed to bring Estel though.’At this Gimli pauses, until he remembers it’s the name of that insanely fluffy cat always featured at Greenleaf’s tumblr. ‘Kind of miss the banter.’

Quite curious, Gimli asks; ‘Are there no friends or other family there with you?’

A few minutes pass, halting and irregular. Then:

‘They couldn’t come, though the twins, well – they’re old friends of mine, we went to kindergarten together. Anyways they would’ve come but father didn’t want that. Thinks they’re too unruly, doesn’t like their black leather jackets or really anything they do. Maybe because they’re inclined to drag me out with them late at night. Luckily he doesn’t know much about me.’

Surprised at this revelation, he replies, ‘I thought you liked indie-pop and was a vegetarian and that.’ He’s not even sure what he means by ‘that’. The only actual facts they’ve found out about one another have been through guesses and teasing, and none of them have really pressured the other into talking; they’ve guessed at each other’s races but that is it, and Gimli is still hopelessly clueless.

‘Well yes. Father’s no idea that I really do, or that I write or anything. Would freak out if he found out. Wants me to go to law-school after grad. Was outright pissed when I said I want to do art. You should’ve have seen his face!’

Gimli abruptly gets a feeling that Greenleaf is distressed – _But_ _why_? he silently wonders; _What’s happened?_ \- and all these sudden confessions are important to get of their chest. So he lets Greenleaf go on. Grabbed by a sudden urge to reach out and comfort them, he wants to hear more; but he doesn’t know what’s wrong and has no idea what to say. And he’s never really been the pat-on-the-back kind of person. Every texted reply comes off as awkward.

‘Why would he freak out?’ he asks.

Glóin knows that he writes. Sure, he doesn’t read it and doesn’t know that it can be sometimes _very_ explicit, but he doesn’t have a problem with it either. After all, he’s perfectly okay with his son being gay and the coming out had been peaceful and calm, involving no screaming or running around (okay so, maybe Gimli had felt rather awkward when his Da decided to give him The Talk at that moment stressing the importance of safe sex), so the revelation of slash fic wasn’t that much of a deal.

‘He’d figure it out then.’

Gimli blinks as he tries deciphering the message. Figure it out? Figure out _what_?

‘Anyway,’ the message continues, tersely; ‘can’t talk more today. Tomorrow? Will probably be bored then too.’

‘Of course!’

Not until after putting the phone away and unpausing the scene frozen on the television screen does he remember that he had completely forgotten to ask for Greenleaf’s real name.

* * *

“But –“

It seems it’s the word he uses most now, Legolas thinks with remorse. He doesn’t want to sound like such a whiny brat.

But – always,  _always_ , his father must do this and that, and he can’t remember last time they just spent the evening at home, talking about pleasant things and sharing a proper dinner. (Usually it’s just Galion the butler serving the meal and Legolas eating it fresh and warm, and Thranduil coming home several hours later, when the food is cold and the kitchen silent. Legolas has woken up to the distant hum of the microwave a thousand times.)

But two more days? He’s got a life too! He can’t just keep travelling to and fro, dashing here and there, sleeping at hotels and waiting for his father’s meetings to end. Maybe he could make up some argument about needing more time to study in peace, but has a feeling it would just sound false because honestly studies are the last thing on his mind. He just wants to talk face-to-face with Aragorn and the twins again. Go out with them and chat with Arwen and finish chapter twenty and –

His father looks apologetic, or at least he  _tries_  to. For a moment he looks a lot more tired than usual, the almost permanent frown more apparent than ever, and his eyes are weary and old and Legolas wonders why his ada always must work this hard – it wouldn’t hurt if he took a day or two off sometime. Surely he realizes that! They’ve got no money-trouble or anything. Just because he’s managing the company it doesn’t mean he has to  _live_  it.

“It’s just another two days.”

He sighs, biting his lip. Crosses his arms over his chest. “ _Just_  two days?”

Last time, the two days had turned out to be a whole week.

“Two days,” Thranduil says -  _promises_. “Three at most. We will be home shortly.”

“You always say that,” Legolas bites back, a flame suddenly flaring up in the centre of his chest – it’s painful and burning, like leaving scars inside there, and suddenly he just wants to get away, can’t stand here calmly facing his father anymore. “You always say that but it never happens! I didn’t even get to say goodbye to the twins when we left this time! It’s always just about  _you_  and  _work_  and never about  _me_!”

A pained frown – different from the usual, dark one he wears – flashes across his father’s face, like a wound opening up, but Legolas ignores the sting. “When are you going to think about  _me_ , Ada? When are you going to actually  _keep_  your promises?”

“Ion –“

He draws back sharply and turns on his heel, rushing for the door. He just. He needs to get out. Away. Breathe. His heart thunder. With anger. Disappointment.  _Two days._ The door is slammed open and he doesn’t care about a jacket; any chill won’t bother him anyway, being an Elf. Still, the air is sharp and cold outside the hotel, and his eyes burn.

_Two days. But. But… Ada._

* * *

The city of Pelargir lies on the coast and is a busy trade-centre. There are always ships arriving and loading at the dock and people rushing everywhere, Elves and Men and Dwarves. Men are most prominent though, for this is Gondor, and there’s never been many other folk living in this area. Walking aimlessly from the tall luxurious building where they’ve been spending the last few night, trying to get as far away from it as possible. Out of sight.

The sun is starting to dip into the horizon but the streets are full and noisy and will remain so for many hours more. The street lamps are glaringly sharp upon the concrete. It’s too smelly and loud for his taste here (old remains of oil in the air), a thousand sensations invading his senses but just a handful of them pleasant. The flickering lights and the voices of various workmen shuffling on the streets are sharp and unsettling, too close, too noisy. There are just many people here, it’s too crowded; he could suffocate in the mass of people.

But he likes it by the water, where the shore is gently caressed by the murmuring sea. The southern beaches are always occupied by tourists even at this time of year, talking slow walks by the edge of the sea now that the water is too cold to swim in, but there are a few quiet places to be found. Legolas has been here enough times to know about them.

There’s this spot near the east loading dock, behind a large rock decorated with sea-shells, where the air is quieter and the sand soft beneath his feet. Nearby there is a footbridge. An elderly couple are standing on it taking photos, probably tourists, but otherwise, it’s lonesome and they can’t see him from vantage point. He sits down on the rock, wrapping his arms around himself as he draws up his knees and he stares out at the water. It rushes in and out of the bay so regularly, so calmly. He tries focusing on it, on the wonderful hum of water, but his angry pulse refuses to settle.

He hadn’t meant to become so upset. Being confronted by his ada’s hurt face like that was startling and unsettling, but … but his ada just won’t  _see,_ won’t _understand_!

If only his ada wasn’t so stubborn and cold all the time! Legolas just – he just wants to spend time with him. A few hours every day. To be held by some sweet nonsense words in the mornings before they part and in the evenings when they reunite. He wants to be able to hug him, like he did when he was eight and showing him so proudly that he could hit the bull’s eye with his bow. He just wanted …

Angrily he rubs at his face, eyes burning again. No tears! Not now!  _Damn it_ , he doesn’t need to –

A shudder works its way through his body. He needs distraction, to think of something else for a while. Anything. Anyone.

* * *

Next morning, he is informed that **You have 7 new message(s).** Together they make a thread of impatience and ridiculous amounts of boredom. He wonders at the first one being sent at 03:23, but then again, he’s opened emails before to realize they had been sent at such an ungodly hour when any sane person would be asleep; Greenleaf is probably one of those people whose daily rhythm is totally upside down (or they don’t sleep at all).

‘Hey Wart,’ reads the first. ‘Or do you prefer being called Gimli? Anyway have you Wordfeud or anything else like that? I’m bored and everyone else won’t play because they’re too busy. AMUSE ME.’

So Greenleaf must be alone again, he concludes. Don’t they have any work to do? But he won’t complain. Their messages are more amusing than either of his cousins’, even if they are sporadic.

Gimli barely manages to respond that yes, he does (Kíli “borrowed” his phone once and installed the app, and he hasn’t bothered to remove it) and his username is the same there as everywhere else; within half a minute, he receives an invitation from TreesofErynLasgalen – and honestly, does _everything_ about Greenleaf’s nicknames involve trees in one manner or another?

And they dare to keep remarking about his axes!

A battle soon ensues. Neither involving neither trees nor axes, other than in the form of swift messages like blows of a physical weapon landing in rapid succession. Gimli’s going to beat this tree-hugger yet.

* * *

It’s lunchtime and they - meaning himself and his youngest cousin - have entered the cafeteria pretty late; the queue is long and the food served turns out to be not very appetizing or warm. Fíli isn’t present, instead attending a course in history (and as opposed to many other teachers’, Professor Balin’s classes are always rather interesting). However Gimli is glad now not having to take part. He’s far more absorbed in figuring out the best letter combinations and – even more important – a fitting comment to counter Greenleaf’s snarkiness with next time they text him.

Gimli spots Thorin and Company (or the Mountain Dwellers as they also like calling themselves, given Thorin is the King Under the Mountain and all) half-way across the room; there’s a Halfling at the table as well, with curly blonde hair on his head and feet, which are bare in typical Hobbit style: he’s never recalled seeing one of their folk wearing shoes. Hm, must be that Baggins figure. They are seemingly deep in discussion. Not wanting to bother them – and anyway, if sitting alone he might check if he’s received any new messages - he steers toward an empty table some way back, near the double doors leading to corridor F2.

But then, Kíli grabs him firmly by the shoulders and forces him to sit down before Gimli can even process what is happening and even less start struggling. The tray is placed on the table with a thud. In a flourish Kíli pulls out a chair, twists it around and takes seat in front of him leaning his elbows against the back of the chair. For once he doesn’t down his can of coke in one go: just sits there, staring at him intensely, causing Gimli to raise his bushy eyebrows.

“ _What_?” he demands.

“You’ve acting odd; more odd than usual anyways. So, spill it.”

He grunts displeasedly. “There’s nothing to ‘spill’.”

“Okay, so it doesn’t have anything to do with you suddenly texting all the time. And I mean _all_ the time. And with you constantly being so mysteriously secretive. You’ve always been peculiar but not like _this_.”

“What of it?” Gimli retorts quickly, recoiling. His hand unconsciously lands on his jeans pocket. “Is a Dwarf not allowed to keep in touch with people?”

Suddenly, his younger cousin is upon him, sticky little paws grabbing for his pocket. Quickly Gimli stands and, making sure his cell remains safely out of reach, glares at his cousin crossly. “Hey! I am _not_ letting you—letting you snoop around _my_ stuff! Back off!“

“Then _spill it_ ,” Kíli insists obstinately, remaining precariously close. “Who is it?”

“No one. Just, just a friend, that’s all.”

His cousin snorts sarcastically. “A _friend_. Sure, _just_ like you, to suddenly - oh. OH.”

Abruptly, his cousin’s mouth forms a perfect circle and Kíli freezes up as if his blood has just turned into something very cold or solid (or both). He might not even be breathing. For a moment Gimli fears for his health – then he fears for the blow to come and his own sanity when it lands.

Then:

“Oh. OH. MAHAL’S BEARD!” the younger Dwarf starts _shrieking_ and he flings himself from the chair, gaining the attention of most other people in the cafeteria. Various Dwarves and young men and women look up from their meals and start murmuring.

Great. Just what he needs. Now the school with be abuzz the following week or two with new talk of his cousin is a nut-case. But wait – everyone already knows that.

By now, Kíli’s arms are flailing as his breathing grows strangled: “MAHAL’S. BEARD. GIMLI!”

Gimli almost, _almost_ gives in to the urge to smack his forehead against the table. Loudly. His  cheeks burn terribly and his ears are ringing from his cousin’s ridiculous behaviour.

“Mahal’s beard,” Kíli repeats, again, eyes bulging. He appears to have had an epiphany. “You’ve got a boyfriend!”

The red-bearded Dwarf scowls at him, arms crossed over his muscled chest. “Look, they’re a _friend_ ,” he stresses. “And keep your voice down for Mahal’s sake!”

“Gimli - you’ve got a _boyfriend_! By Aulë! I never thought I’d see the day! I can’t wait to tell Fíli!”

“Kíli— _no_ —”

It’s too late: the dark-haired Dwarf has suddenly set off, rushing down from the chair causing it to topple over and nearly spilling ketchup everywhere, and he is out of the cafeteria within a few seconds, waving his arms in wide gestures. His excited shouts can be heard disappearing down the corridor.

“REVOLUTION!” he’s screaming, voice bouncing between the walls. (Understandably the freshmen give him a wide berth.) “FÍLI, IT’S _REVOLUTION_!”

The cafeteria has completely hushed down now: the silence is deafening. Gimli’s face flushes, rapidly growing as red as his beard.

“What’re you all staring at?!” he mutters gruffly and the nearest people slowly turn their backs, returning to their food.

Hesitant conversation rise again above the table. Soon, the rest follow suit, and the intelligible murmurs drown the clatter of spoons and forks. The young Dwarf feels Thorin’s questionable gaze on him, but ignores him for now. If curious enough, Thorin will ask later, maybe give him a call after he’s finished his sparring lessons.

Slowly Gimli exhales. He gathers his things and stiffly walks out of the large room, hands not quite steady. Oh _, why_ has Mahal forced such painful cousins upon him?

A quiet Khuzdul curse leaves his mouth, hoarse in his throat. It soothes him none. He is forced to stop as he rounds a corner, pressing his bag against his chest as he leans against the wall: it is cool beneath his forehead.

…Why is heart suddenly beating so wildly against his ribcage?

* * *

Finally, nearing the end of the day, he finds a secluded corner in the eastern building, where mainly the Halflings hang out during breaks, and no one gives him a second glance. Now able to breathe at a normal rate and not having to worry about a Dwarf suddenly popping out of nowhere to attack him, he pulls out his phone.

**You have 9 new message(s).**

‘Wart.’

‘WART.’

‘Axe-wielder of immense power etc. etc. etc. ...I AM WINNING OUR GAME if you haven’t noticed yet.’

‘If you’re busy, I understand. But could you please answer this message when you get the chance?’

‘It’s…well. I’ve got some bad news. My father’s decided we’re staying for another two days. So it’ll be some time before I can get back on track.’

‘Gimli? GIMLI.’

‘Are you all right? Am I disturbing you in the middle of something important? (if you’re polishing your axes, I keep telling you, it’s not good for your safety!)’

‘Look, I’m sorry I keep calling you Wart. It’s kind of a habit. But it suits you.’

And lastly: ‘It’s not even 3 pm yet and I’m already bored. Amuse me. I DEMAND IT.’

He can’t hinder the grin tugging at his lips. His social life may be a disaster on the whole and his cousin is extremely awkward and not helping, but at least Greenleaf is there and he has his writing to return to.

‘Yes, yes, I’m here, I’m alive,’ he types. ‘No need to sound so distressed.’

The reply is immediate. Almost as if (the thought selfish in his wanton, but also not that improbable) Greenleaf has been keenly waiting for minutes and hours for a simple hello. It’s touching (and maybe a little bit worrying too).

‘I’m not distressed!’

‘Sure. How are you?’

‘Good. Rather jaded. You?’

‘I must admit your idiosyncrasy would liven up my day rather agreeably.’

‘Whoa! That’s a quite complicated word, dear Wart. Are you certain you know what it means?’

‘Don’t make me laugh!’


	6. Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A moment in this chapter kind of refers to another, as of yet unpublished, story in this 'verse (which will be Bagginsshield). You'll know it when you see it._

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-03-26 02:22:54

**Subject: I’m back!**

_Hello Gimli!_

_I came ashore five hours ago – it’s a long ride by car from Port Pelargir, and I fell asleep half-way. I was completely drained, which is odd; I usually don’t get that tired._

_Anyway, I will return to beta reading shortly. I’m hungry for more of your fic and insanely curious to see what you’ve written in my absence. You haven’t been slacking off, right?_

_Hugs and good night,_

_Legolas  
You’re right, we should be on first name basis by now, shouldn’t we? (But from my point of view we’ve always been.)_

_PS. Can’t recall what the last PS-battle concerned and can’t bother checking our last email thread tonight. DS._

_PPS. (Concerning the previously mentioned PS) But it surely was important and either way, **I** was winning. Also Wordfeud rematch asap? This time I’ll be nice, I promise. DDS._

* * *

A name – finally!

And it sounds, well, not _quite_ Mannish … nor that very girly. But who knows with people nowadays?

Anyway. Legolas is a good, strong name. It rolls nicely off the tongue, like fitting there. (Not that he goes around repeating it aloud or anything. That would be silly. He’s just memorizing it, that’s all.)

* * *

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-03-26 07:23:43

**Subject: Re: I’m back!**

_Hello Legolas,_

_I’m glad to hear it! And who are you calling lazy?! Here I’ve been working my ass off while you’ve slept away your boredom. Clearly your assumption is uncalled for._

_Cheers,_

_Gimli_

_PS. Hint: it involved this. DS._

_PPS. The day you win is the day evidence is found that Durin the Deathless was in fact an Elf. Moreover you need not to claim you shall “be nice” in a pretentious attempt to cover up your obvious failure in this game. DDS._

* * *

Kíli is staring intensively at him again. His notebook lies untouched before him. And he’s been like this for the whole last hour, completely ignoring lecture on biology. Fortunately (or in retrospection, perhaps not) Professor Brown is rather absent-minded and doesn’t notice the lack of interest in the third row (or the rowdy fight at the back). He is too busy proudly showing the class overhead pictures of a certain breed of rabbits.

“What?” Gimli whispers furiously.

When given the attention, his cousin’s eyes suddenly brighten, wide with curiousity. His voice is far too loud for Gimli to be comfortable. “Have you spoken with your boyfriend lately? Are you two having phone-s—”

A hand crashes down on the younger Dwarf’s head with a loud _smack! “_ Shut up!” he growls, eyes wide. “I’ve told you a thousand times, we’re not together and certainly not doing _anything_ of the sort!”

“But,” says Kíli then, a smug and quite evil glint in his eyes; “you _want_ to.”

He earns another swat over the head for that. The heavy, seldom opened tome _A Thousand Useful Plants to Know, Because They Are Useful (as presented by T. Bombadill)_ comes very in handy for that purpose.

The dark-haired Dwarf rubs at the offended body part, groaning and they gain a few irate glances from classmates who actually try keeping up with that the teacher’s saying.

“Ow, ow! What’d you do that for?!”

“Because you’re the most annoying cousin in Arda. I’ve told you already, Legolas. Is. _Not_. My. Boyfriend.”

“Legolas, huh? I’ll have to remember that.” And Kíli reaches for his pencil for the first time this day.

Gimli curses. In Khuzdul. _Loudly_.

Wait, is Kíli drawing hearts in his notebook? Why’s he – _Oh_. _Fuuuuu_ -

“ _Kíli_ ,” he mutters, grabbing for his own pencil. Would it be a crime to stab him now? Not mortally wounding him or anything, just his hand. It would be … self-defence, yes. “Seriously, Kíli. Stop it. Now. Or I’m going to hurt you. For real, this time.”

Kíli seems exceedingly proud of him artwork, finishing the top round of the heart and giving it the finishing touch by writing ‘G+L’ in the centre. Grumbling, Gimli realizes that he’s lost his pencil, therefore he has no weapon to stab his cousin with. (For self-defence.)

No, wait, that’s _his_ pencil that Kíli is using!

“There - perfect! When’s this class ever going to end? I want to meet up with Fee and show him this!” Kíli giggles a little. Wholly unbecoming for one of Durin’s proud folk. And he’s _still_ holding his pencil!  

Gimli doesn’t reply, only violently snatches the item from Kíli’s hand with a grumble and turns his back, trying his best to ignore him and take calm breaths. Stupid cousins. Whoever taught him to draw hearts?

* * *

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-03-28 17:23:01

**Subject: Re: re: off-topic rants (I think we need a thread like this)**

_You wouldn’t believe how my cousin’s behaving! He’s unbelievable!! I really wish to strangle him sometimes!! How can one single person be so – so – so annoying?!?!_

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-04-01 20:00:01

**Subject: Re: re: re: off-topic rants (I think we need a thread like this)**

_Hi Gimli!_

_I may not have any close cousins but I’m friends with the Twins (like having a set of brothers since kindergarten); and they can get me on my nerves quite a lot. Want me to come over and use him as target practice?_

_Just kidding. But seriously. Whatever use do you put your axes to? I think it’s time you took them off your wall and not just to polish them._

_By the way, chapters 22-23 are 99% finished and will be sent to you ASAP. It looks amazing! You’re improving at a breath-taking rate. Seriously, this fic will break new grounds._

_Hugs,_

_Legolas_

_PS. My offer still stands! Moreover, I’m on 270 points. Since you asked for it. DS._

_PPS (if you remember – it was a while ago). Mayhap this Durin guy was merely an Elf born very short and with an awkwardly long beard? DDS._

* * *

Legolas sends alot of hugs.

Seriously, _no one_ has sent him so many casual hugs before. To start with, it’s rather annoying, but then … it’s kind of grown on him like every other of Legolas’ antics, and he starts liking it.

And then when Legolas sometimes signs off his emails with something else, something not as warm, Gimli – briefly, but the feeling surging over him so oddly forcefully as well – wonders if everything is all right.

When feeling down, like after fighting with their father – which seems to happen worrisomely often - Legolas’ wording is quite brisk and the proper greetings and endings of letters may be forgotten. And the texts then are sporadic and short and Gimli hangs on, like by the edge of a knife, stomach churning as he patiently waits for a reply to his meaningless rants. Just a ramble of words, kindly meant but he thinks, as soon as he hits the Send-button, that they could sound far too awkward and forced; but he means the words and he tries, he _tries_.

His attempts to cheer Legolas up might seem kind of pathetic in hindsight, but somehow they work. And, in turn, Legolas manages to raise his spirits too, with their sharp wit, their warm humour, their shared laughs and caring tone whenever Gimli hints at being tired or annoyed.

If he wants or needs to, Legolas has assured him, he can always talk, about anything really. Though, Gimli finds this kind offer unnecessary for him, for he can’t come up with anything to talk about, not really; but he likes reading everything that his beta reader writes. Even when they are acting snarky and unforgivable.

* * *

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-04-01 21:34:22

**Subject: Re: re: re: off-topic rants (I think we need a thread like this)**

_Hello Legolas,_

_Thank you for your patience with my rant and the absence of proper greetings and all. It shan’t happen again. Also, my cousins are going away with their mother for the weekend so I’ll have a breather. (Breathing’s the key when dealing with those two.)_

_Great to hear! This cooperation is proving to be more effective than I could ever have hoped for._

_Cheers,_

_Gimli_

_PS. That’s not even a proper word! Whoever checks the wordlist of this game?? I should file a complaint. And don’t be so smug! I shall beat your meagre score shortly. Be ready. DS._

_PPS. ‘That Durin guy’? An Elf?! THAT IS UTTERLY RIDICULOUS AND FALSE! DDS._

* * *

 Legolas smirks at the last line. Riling his fellow writer up was always as much fun.

There's something about Gimli, though, that makes him so ridiculously cute. He has a strange urge to curl up around him and pat his head. Yeah, far too cute to be legal.

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: dw.alin.the.master@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-04-25 14:07:18

 **VERY** **IMPORTANT !!!**

_Greetings fellow Dwarf,_

_The Company wants to meet at the Prancing Pony tomorrow at 2 pm. Please reply whether you’re coming. AND MAKE SURE YOU’RE COMING; OTHERWISE I SHALL BE VERY DISPLEASED. Apparently Thorin has something important to announce and a simple call won’t do. Also the info provided by you came in handy, judging by Thorin’s mood. He does not growl that much._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_The Master Dwarf_

* * *

Gimli has to double check the name before he realizes that it’s Dwalin, and not Legolas. He’s gotten so used to receiving nearly an email a day from his beta, that it’s kind of weird getting such an official-sounding request from Dwalin to attend to one of those Company meetings. They’re always so formal when they meet up, Thorin and his Company.

Frankly Gimli thinks it’s quite ridiculous. However, a call is a call, and he has a duty, especially considering Dwalin is practically threatening him with this one short message. Besides, it’s at the Prancing Pony so it won’t be that bad. He can drink his coffee and listen to the other Dwarves’ rants, nod and hum at the right moments and take notes as a secretary (he usually gets to do that). Meanwhile he could probably also scribble on the napkins and plan out the climax for chapter twenty-one, the one with the dragon …

So, next day – which is a Saturday – Gimli drags himself out of bed on time and dutifully combs his hair, and gathers a pencil and a notebook before he heads off.

The best thing about the Company meetings is the free coffee - or at least discounted coffee, because Barliman likes them. And there are always muffins too, his favourite sort. The Prancing Pony is packed but the barista does not seem to mind – their occasional meetings here bring him quite a lot of money.

Dwalin is there and Thorin (of course), his cousins and Nori, Ori and Dori (they’re brothers and Gimli assumes that their parents ran out of names). Also Bombur is present devouring a giant chocolate cake and Bifur is muttering about everyone being too darn loud (meanwhile, a pair of headphones are stuffed in his ears).

There’s a new face there as well and it does not belong to a Dwarf, that’s for certain. Gimli stares at the Hobbit for a while trying to remember where he’s seen him before. Ah! That’s right. The Hobbit. Baggins, wasn’t it?

 “Dear members of the Company –” Thorin starts, standing up on one of the chairs, and Gimli rolls his eyes; this is one of those times when Thorin has to be all high and mighty and hold a long, majestic speech. It’ll take him at least the quarter of an hour to get to the point.

“Yes, yes, yes, we get it,” says the Hobbit in a fairly impatient voice. “I don’t honestly see the point in – what’d you call it? - an ‘official announcement’. It’s not that much of a deal.”

“But it is!” insists Thorin. “You’re mine and thus I must declare it!”

Gimli coughs rather loudly. He’s not surprised that Thorin is possessive, especially as a boyfriend; however he couldn’t have foreseen him dating a Hobbit. But Bilbo seems like a nice guy, able to keep Thorin in check which is good.

“So _that’s_ why you’ve assembled us? Because you need to tell us you’ve got a boyfriend when you could have simply updated your Facebook status?”

“Of course! It’s tremendously important,” the Company’s Leader says heatedly. “Just announcing it online isn’t going to do it. People can be so thick-headed sometimes.”

Nori looks affronted. “Hey! Who’re you calling thick-headed?”

Meanwhile, Nori’s brother smirks and leans over the table in an inconspicuous manner to whisper in Gimli’s ear: “You surprised?”

Gimli elbows him. “Shut up. Besides I was busy with something really important when you called me here,” the red-head says, only to be interrupted by an insane cackle. Very, very insane. Also very unwelcome. Mahal how he wishes there were some invisible trapdoors around here so that he could disappear!

“Yeah! Gimli and Legolas, sitting in a cyber-tree, K-I-“

Glaring dangerously in the direction of the two cousins who have begun to chant in choir, Gimli waves around the coffee spoon like a deadly sword, his poise ready to strike. The barista behind the counter looks a little alarmed – probably fearing any impending smashing of china and the frightening off of customers.

“You shut up!”

“Hey, hey!” Thorin cuts in. “This meeting’s about announcing that Bilbo and I are dating! Not about anyone Leg-what’s-their-face and, and was that Gimli? In a tree? Wait, uh.”

Thorin suddenly stops, awkwardly scratching his stubble as if realizing he’s probably insulted somebody. Gimli is vaguely aware that the Hobbit has kicked the mighty Dwarf in the shin, muttering something on his breath; Thorin clears his throat and his voice is unusually high-pitched. It’s rare to see him put so off-balance. “I mean, it’s nice to hear you’re getting a leg around someone. Ha, a _leg_ around Legless.”

Nori snorts with badly supressed laughter and tries hiding it behind his tea mug. In the background, the Hobbit groans.

“It’s _Legolas_ ,” Gimli rights him automatically. Because honestly how can anyone mistake such a beautiful name? It’s outrageous! They could at least get it right even if they plan on insulting him, assuming he’s … _eloping_ with his beta!

Still unstoppable, the cousins of doom are continuing to singing, probably scaring off costumers and they take advantage of the slight pause to raise their voices even more: “…sitting in a cyber-tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-“

“And we’re _not_ _dating_! Whenever are you going to get it, you, you slow-munching, orc-infested pieces of … _Elf-brains_!”

The little Hobbit, who has sat still observing this exchange with bright eyes but a confused expression up till now, clears his throat. “This is getting a bit over my head,” Bilbo says. “I thought you said your buddies were going to take this calmly and then we could go buy some ice-cream.”

There’s another snort; this time from Dwalin, who might seem very dangerous and imposing to anyone (despite his height) but the Hobbit doesn’t even blink. “Calmly? Yeah, right.”

Gimli thinks this is getting ridiculous. He just wants to go home and finish writing. It would be convenient if his Da called right about now to say that dinner’s ready.

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-05-17 18:37:22

**Re: re: re: re: off-topic maybe but hardly ranting**

_Hey Gimli! How is it going?_

_I’m a bit busy with a big assignment right now. Going out for a night would have been a nice distraction, but I don’t think I could, given dad refuses to chauffeur me._

_Mithlond, my home town, is really the middle of nowhere. It’s a tiny place, nothing much to be found except for a couple of bars and an old cinema. Our house is situated a couple of miles outside town and there’s practically no busses or other communal traffic out here. I really wish I got my driver’s license already!_

_Where are you from, by the way?_

_I think I’d better go back to homework now before my dad comes to see me slacking off. He might be starting to figure that when I’m beta’ing I’m not writing that history thingy I was meant to … better hurry up getting everything done and handed in. Graduation isn’t that far off now, you know._

_How is it with graduation and stuff for you? Any parties or balls you’re going to attend to?_

_Hugs,_

_Legolas_

_PS. Are you_ certain _you are not a Dwarf? You seem very much like a Dwarf. Probably with darkish hair or an odd colour. Auburn or red. Yeah, that seems about right. Oh, and don’t forget the band tee and plaited beard! DS._

* * *

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-05-17 22:01:01

**Re: re: re: re: re: off-topic maybe but hardly ranting**

_Hello Legolas!_

_I’m doing well. Writing is coming along as it should (no need to ask!). Assignment-wise, things are starting to even out. I’ve got a huge maths test next Friday, something about differential equations. I’m greatly looking forward to graduation next month! It’s the seventh of July for my part. What about you?_

_But going to a ball,_ me _? Pfft. My ears would grow pointed before_ that _happens! Though I’ve got a couple of friends insisting that I go, but I’ll resist them, somehow. Possibly using the Force, and cookies._

_I’m from Erebor, by the way – it’s westward of the Misty Mountain ridge. It’s on the bigger side but the community is cosy._

_Good luck with that history project! I’ll go and check over the maths before tomorrow. Hopefully._

_Cheers,_

_Gimli_

_PS. You’re very insistent, you know that? One’d think you’d given it up by now, but no. Fantastic, now my beta is making assumptions that I’m some stocky redhead without knowing a thing! Pfft, you’re probably blonde, given your attitude. DS._

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-05-18 18:37:22

**Re: re: re: re: re: re: off-topic but hardly ranting, no**

_Hello Gimli,_

_You’re from Erebor, really? (I know my geography, no need to point it out!) I’m going there on a trip in nearly two weeks! (One of father’s business trips of course, but this one is_ meant _to be pleasant.) It’s my last break from schoolwork – on all other trips I’ve always brought my books and stuff and father has made sure I studied. (But he didn’t foresee the hotel’s free internet that one time …) Anyway, no homework this time, so I’ll have lots of time to do whatever I want. FREEEEDOOMMM!!!_

_…Ahem._

_Anyway, maybe we could meet up? I’ve never been to Erebor before but heard there’s meant to be a really good theatre there, Helm’s Deep (isn’t it the base of the company The Rohirrim? Watched them once performing ‘The Children of Húrin’ when I was in Minas Tirith last year. If you haven’t seen it already you should!). Or maybe you’d rather do something else?_

_Of course, if you don’t want to meet, or are too busy, I understand. I don’t wish to interfere or anything. But it would be nice finally seeing each other face to face!_

_Hugs,_

_Legolas_

_PS. Woah! Spot on! (And I’ll take that as a compliment, not an insult.) I’m blonde - Father refuses letting me dye it. BUT I HAVE PLANS. Also I am 99% sure you’re ginger. DS._

* * *

_Maybe we could meet up?_

* * *

For a moment, Gimli’s breathing stills.

Legolas wants to meet? With him?

Legolas wants to _meet_ … with _him_!

Then as if grabbed by a wind of force, a wild hail, a vicious storm of lightning, he finds himself typing away, his heart suddenly soaring with anticipation:

_Hello Legolas!_

_I’d love to meet you! The theatre is great, and yes it’s the base of The Rohirrim. I agree; their take on The Children of Húrin was utterly_ gorgeous _! They might even be playing it in two weeks, we could go see it if you’d like. And there’s a really good coffee shop I’d like to show you and_

Suddenly he halts, hands growing still – they’re not really steady. He’s…he’s getting too carried off. Legolas is just asking as a curious friend, nothing else. Even if …

Oh Mahal, he’s starting to sound like some overexcited Halfling! Legolas is just a _friend_. He doesn’t need to prove anything, not boast of his home-city’s worth or his own and he really, really needs to get control of his breathing right now.

Finally, (instead of describing every little thing in complete detail) he settles for:

_and many other things that Erebor has to offer. Which date will you arrive?_

_We could meet at The Prancing Pony, the coffee shop. They serve really good lattes, which I’m sure you’d appreciate._

_Cheers_

Again, a pause. ‘Cheers?’ He’s kept signing in that or a similar manner since a few weeks back, to counter the hugs which are more friendly and personal than ‘Yours Sincerely’. Now though he has this urge to backspace and say ‘Hugs’ back.

How would Legolas react to that?

Surely they can’t take it in any ill manner. They throw hugs everywhere! Hugs are kind and warm and friendly. Hugs are good. So the Dwarf presses backspace and writes instead:

 _Hugs_ ,

_Gimli_

_PS. Blonde, huh? Strange, I could not believe such a thing, given your way with words. But then again, there’s something about you and your snarkiness in excess - so it kind of explains it really. And you guessed right –_ how _I cannot know! My hair is red and also utterly outstanding. DS._

* * *

The reply comes within half an hour. Legolas lingers on the chair, eyes plastered to the screen, heart in his throat. He just – he just can’t calm down. Oh Valar. What’s he just asked? He can’t believe he just asked that.

What if Gimli says no? What if they won’t meet?

What then?

Legolas wouldn’t be able to show himself on the streets of Erebor if that happened, lock himself in on the hotel room instead, just in case the Dwarf walked by – they might not recognize each other, but still … Oh. Eru.

_Don’t say no, **please** don’t say no…!_

Then:

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-05-18 19:00:41

**Subject: Re: re: re: Meeting up (?)**

_Hello, Legolas!_

_I'd love to meet you!_

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-05-18 19:12:59

**Subject: Re: re: re: re: Meeting up**

_Hello Gimli,_

_I’m so glad to hear it! I can’t wait._

_The Prancing Pony, it’s in the centre of town? I’ll probably have to consult some maps._

_We’ll arrive at the airport quite late on 31/5, so I’ll probably not be able to meet up until next morning. Twelve o’clock-ish? I can’t give any details yet though, must talk with my father first; you know, if he wants me to come with him somewhere, albeit I doubt it. He’d hardly go on an art exhibit or museum with me (probably thinks I’m “too excited” about stuff like that already). Anyways. I’ll find my way to the café one way or another. We’ll keep in touch, yeah?_

_Hugs,_

_Legolas_

_PS. I was RIGHT! Finding a red-haired Dwarf can’t be_ that _hard, even in the middle of Erebor. DS._

* * *

Two weeks.

In two mere weeks, they’re going to **meet**.

He and Legolas. For real. Face to face. In the physical world.

TWO. WEEKS.

How the hell is he going to prepare himself, mentally and literarily and physically, for this? How on _Arda_ …?!

Oh, oh Mahal! – Legolas is going to meet him! And Legolas is going to see he’s actually a Dwarf (though Greenleaf already knows this with a 99.9 % certainty) and not just any Dwarf; he’s a bit on the stout side, and his beard is a bit on the curly side – oh by Aulë, what if Legolas doesn’t actually like Dwarves that much? What if they find beards distasteful? Or has something against gingers, therefore the sharp commentary? What if… _what if…!?_

Needless to say, his gut is tying itself in a thousand agonizing knots.

What on Arda has he just agreed to?!


	7. Part 6

The days seem to slow down. Each hour is excruciating. He can’t stop looking at his watch, counting the hours and minutes and seconds. Can’t stop looking at the date at the bottom of the computer screen, mentally crossing out number after number.

It’s just ten days left.

Then there are nine.

And the clocks starts ticking faster.

 _Mahal_. He’s starting to truly panic now. What’s he going to say once they finally meet? They’ve never even called on the phone, just texted. He’s never used his voice when communicating with Legolas. Just his hands, the words etched to his fingertips.

And should he maybe tell Legolas beforehand more details on what he looks like, so they can find each other? What in the name of all mountains holy is he going to _wear_? Erebor is pretty big and the Prancing Pony usually packed. Especially considering Legolas said he’s never been there before and will be quite lost to begin with. Should he wear highlighting colours and whatnot or go neutral or wear a suit? It’s not … not that formal is it?

It’s not a date … he thinks. No, they didn’t agree on anything like that. Just, meeting, like friends. Like friends.

(But Gimli cannot still his wildly beating heart at the thought, however brief it might be.)

And what if Legolas doesn’t find his beard agreeable?

There are so, so many things that could go wrong.

Aulë – _six days!_

* * *

They had insisted on a sleepover. Why, Gimli doesn’t know. But his cousins do weird things like that from time to time and his Da readily agrees (maybe because he’s happy to cook for more than two).

He, Fíli and Kíli end up spending the evening playing video games (he totally busts them, naturally, since they do it so rarely that they don’t have any practice) and drinking coke (of the _proper_ sort) and his Da is also there somewhere in a corner, looking on amusedly while working on one of his latest projects, involving quite a lot of pearls.

For a few precious hours, Gimli stops the panicked chant of OH MAHAL I’M GOING TO MEET LEGOLAS _TOMORROW_ (followed by a long row of exclamation marks).

Then, midnight comes around; his Da goes to bed, shutting the door tight and they swear that they won’t be (too) loud, “Really, promise.” albeit such a promise is difficult to keep with three teenage boys around.

The wee hours pass and after beating the two brothers harshly in yet another row of various games, rolling his eyes at their whining about him ‘cheating’ (as always too jealous to appreciate true talent), Gimli unclogs himself from the sofa.

“Does anybody want pizza? There’s some more left in the fridge,” he says, recalling the rather frenzied debate they’d held a few hours prior when dinner was to be decided, and they had fought for the right to order for a while.

“Is there any of the kebab left?” asks Fíli hopefully.

“Yes, since you insisted ordering so much of it. _With_ pineapple,” the red-head adds with a grimace. Seriously, pineapple - with kebab? His cousin’s utterly crazy (no surprise to anyone).

“Yay!”

“Your taste is abhorrent. You know that, right?”

“Hey! _Nobody_ insults my pineapple delights!”

With a sigh and mutter in Khuzdul, Gimli leaves the room, the television screen frozen. He glances at his two cousins once more before leaving for the kitchen. They’re sitting unusually still. Most of the time they can’t even stand up at the same spot for thirty seconds, even less sit in a sofa taking it easy. Now, however, they sit there. Murmuring softly to one another. Suspiciously still.

Maybe they’ve just gotten out of the sugar high though – thank Mahal for that! (At least they brought soda, not energy drinks which has been banned from this house all since that incident with Aunt Dís two years ago).

With a final warning look at the two, he heads toward the fridge.

* * *

“Clear?” whispers Kíli excitedly. His brother gives him first a perplexed look, then it dawns on him, and he looks back at the open doorway. The shadow of Gimli slips away, the floor groaning ever-so-slightly beneath his feet. There’s the sound of the fridge opening and the rattle of plastic and carbon boxes.

“Clear.”

The walk up the stairs is painfully slow. They must make sure not to make any sounds. Fortunately, they are very familiar with this building, and know to avoid the fifth step from the bottom. From there on all goes smoothly.

The door to Gimli’s room (the walls littered with band posters, fantasy maps and post-it-notes) is half-open and the phone simply lies there, on the nightstand, entirely unguarded. A forgotten lamp is casting a yellow warm glow on the floor and their faces as they approach.

Kíli launches forward. He and his brother have been waiting for an opportunity like this for _days_ : perhaps he even more than Fíli. Hence his excitement and why he has been “just hanging around” his cousin’s house for several afternoons in a row, and suggesting this sleepover in the first place.

Faintly from the kitchen, there’s the sound of footsteps and the humming of a micro-wave. They’d better hurry.

He knows his cousin well enough to crack his password within three minutes. As soon as that is done, he goes to Gimli’s latest text messages. The name he seeks is found at the top: the last message was sent yesterday night, shortly after midnight.

Perfect!

“Look, Kíli,” mutters Fíli, albeit he itches too to do something – honestly, Gimli’s sulking _would_ be remedied if he could just get his thick head around the matter and _talk_. But he stubbornly refuses. He had muttered something about ‘Just friends’ and stalked off last time Fíli inquired him about it. Still, this is an intrusion of _privacy_. There’s a limit, surely… “Should we really—?”

“Just look at this!” his brother cuts him off and shows him the latest message. It’s surprisingly…cute for being written by their cousin. And the right- _there_ reply causes them both to snicker hopelessly.

Once their chuckles have died, the dark-haired Dwarf continues: “Let’s face it: we’re doing him a favour. It’s _obvious_ this Legolas guy is flirting with him and he’s just too absorbed in his angsty mood to notice! Yeah, he’s going to hate us for sure for a while. But then he’s going to thank us heartily.”

His brother sighs, knowing _that_ look. There’s no stopping Kíli, whether he agrees to take part or not. And he has got a point. They have reached the limit now of how much more grumpiness they can take from their cousin; and he’s been especially on edge as of late. They are going to figure out his secrets though. “Oh, what the heck.” He plops down on the sofa and crowds around the phone in Kíli’s hands.

“Okay, let’s see. ‘Dear Legolas ...’”

“He starts several texts like that,” his brother points out. “Nothing unusual.”

“Which is why _we_ use it. Otherwise he’d figure it’s someone else and get suspicious. Hmm... ’I have a confession to make. I really want to grab your nice little ass-‘ Would Gimli talk like that? Um. Probably not. But I bet he _wants to_! … ‘-and haul you back to my dark’, no, wait, ‘obscure cave. I have had this deep, inexplicable desire for some time now. A desire for you. In my bed. Preferably naked.’”

“No beating about the bush,” Fíli remarks.

His brother smirks, flashing a row of shining white teeth. “It’s a natural talent.”

* * *

Sometime later, Gimli returns, carefully balancing three plates on his hands and arms. But the living room is void of activity, save for the quiet buzz of the television set. Then where…?

Oh _no_.

Right before he’d left, his cousins had been acting far too innocent and talking too loudly. Of course he should have anticipated this! He’s such a fool! An utter _idiot_! Turning on the threshold, he heads toward his room. They’ve definitely been up to something.

Everything in the room looks the same, except his phone, which now lies on the chair instead of the desk. And, he finds, the messages are open. The latest one is one he has definitely _not_ written. He doesn’t even need to read it through to know.

“KÍLI!” he bellows at the top of his lungs. “FÍLI!”

There’s a great scurrying of feet, a sudden cry of: “Oh, look at the time! Got to go!” and the door opens, slams shut, trembling at the force. Gimli, teeth gnashing, runs after them, but the brats have already fled – as if they’ve planned this, leaving behind a mess of empty packets of crisps and sleeping bags upturned on the living room floor.

From upstairs there’s a mutter: “Gimli! What’s all this racket about? I’m trying to sleep here!”

“Um – sorry Da, didn’t mean to wake you,” he manages to choke, albeit he’s uncertain if his old man can hear.

Oh, when he gets his hands on them …!

Groaning at the mere thought of what misery they might just have forced upon him, he returns to his room, now to read the message through carefully. Hopefully, hopefully they have just messed around a little bit; sent a short drunk-like text to one of his friends like Thorin. He’d understand at once, and there’d be nothing awkward about it, forgotten at once. Or maybe Dwalin, even if the Master Dwarf wasn’t really fond of weird stuff happening like that (the only thing he did at parties was eating).

But it’s not sent to Thorin. Or even Dwalin. Or any other Dwarves on his contact list.

And it’s _not_ short.

It’s very, um, explicit in its how it explains all the things that ‘Gimli’ wants to do with the receiver of the message. And a lot of more things are implied and it goes on about ‘roses are red, the sky is blue’ and he’s not even going to mention the last bit; and that ‘You make me feel like an adorable mush of FEELS’ and ‘I want to [censored] frivolously with you.’

Oh.

Dear.

 _Aulë_.

How is he ever meant to survive facing Legolas _now_?

* * *

It’s the middle of the night when they finally reaches the hotel. Usually, he’d just collapse on his bed and prepare himself for the coming text of boredom. But now, he’s bouncing with energy, almost out of his control. As father begins to remove his ever-present suit and perfectly straight tie, Legolas hastily searches through his bag for a pair of pyjamas. Then he grabs his phone and his laptop and settles on one of the springy beds, lying on his stomach. The glow of the screen is pale and bright, and his father makes a noise of discontentment at the back of his throat.

“Legolas, it’s late. You have time for that in the morning.”

“Just a minute, Ada,” he pleads. “I just want to check something.”

His father gives him a hard stare but thankfully is too tired to argue, and goes to the bathroom to freshen up.

Legolas, glad of the internet connection, quickly logs onto his ardamail. He skims past the few alerts of kudos and tumblr followers, searching for something quite more important. Within seconds he finds it and clicks Reply, quietly thanking the hotel’s free internet access.

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com   
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-08-01 02:01:47

**Subject: Re: re: Visit to Erebor**

_Hello Gimli!_

_I’ve just arrived at the hotel._

_I just thought you should know, that when we meet at the Prancing Pony I’ll (most probably) be wearing a black sweater, a pair of dark jeans and green sneakers (if this changes, I’ll message you ASAP). And as you know, I’m blonde and also my ears are pierced. I’m quite pale and rather tall too._

_Should we meet outside the doors of the café? And any landmarks would be extremely helpful._

_Hugs,_

_Legolas_

* * *

He’s just sent it as his father returns, and with a sight and rolling his eyes exasperatedly at the stern look Thranduil sends him, the logs off and shuts the laptop, putting it back in the bag.

After brushing his teeth, he returns to the bedroom to find it already utterly dark. His sharp elven eyes find the bed without trouble though and he’s just settled under the white covers, when there’s a faint vibrating sound.

“Legolas!” his father growls. “I thought I told you to shut that thing off.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, grabbing for his phone. As the screen glaringly comes to life, his father’s voice drops another few levels, dangerously cold: “Legolas!”

**You have 1 unread message(s).**

He lazily opens the text and scrolls through it. It’s unusually long. But Gimli writes long odd things sometimes, and the warm greeting makes him smile. And then he hits the second line. And then the third.

The words grow hot, and the details goes on, followed by some frankly horrible and very unoriginal poetry; and _then_ -

Unwillingly, his pulse speeds up and the pointy tips of his ears flush.

Oh – _oh_.

Is … is Gimli drunk or something? He hadn’t thought Gimli was the kind of person to get drunk, but …

“Legolas! This is your final warning.”

He has to be.

He _has_ to be.

“ _Legolas_!”

“Y…Yes, Ada.”

A bit uncertain, he hesitates before replying: ‘Gimli, are you drunk? Because being drunk is most unwise even at this hour. Or at least when you have access to a phone.’

But he can’t see the answer. It has to wait until morning. Reluctantly, he turns the phone off and rolls over, back to the wall. No matter though how much he twists and turns, rest won’t come to him, and dawn excruciatingly approaches slowly. His mind whirls.

Drunk or not – it sounded like he _meant_ it. And. Oh Valar. Sure, he’s read lot of implicit, explicit things. And written it too. Lots of silly romantic novels and stories, but this, this is a whole other thing. This is _Gimli_. And he’s saying things like that, in the middle of the night.

Legolas’ face heats up even more when, some hours into the restless night, the message returns in clarity to his mind and he finds he has an, umm, awkwardly hard problem. He squirms uncomfortably. But if he excuses himself to go to the bathroom now his father will wonder what’s wrong and that’s a conversation he’d rather not face today or any other day really.

Oh Valar, how is he going to be able to face Gimli in less than twelve hours without _fainting_?


	8. Part 7

Morning comes.

His father wakes early, dresses in a perfectly pressed suit and heads down for breakfast. The hotel is (naturally) first class so everything, breakfast including, is top-notch. Then, his father says, he has some business to attend to and he won’t be back until sometime around four.

But the thought of food makes only Legolas’ stomach turn, so he politely excuses himself, lingering in the hotel room. Seven AM. Too early still – they had decided to meet at twelve thirty, since Gimli finished his classes early today.

Thus Legolas has all the time he needs, and more, to find the perfect clothes to wear. Only, since he’d already decided yesterday, it doesn’t take that long. He stares at himself in the mirror for a long while. Is it all right? His hair is simply combed straight, except for a thin braid falling from behind his left ear, but he would kind of like redoing it. Add another. Or would that be too much? Should he skip the helix piercing?

But this isn’t some … some date or other thing like that. It’s just a meeting between friends. Right. A meeting. Nothing extraordinary. He shouldn’t be getting this worked up or worried about his looks over such a thing!

 _But_ , he bites his lip thinking then; _the text_ –

Valar, he still can’t forget about it.

There’s been nothing following it, just silence. No more such … confessions. No ramblings or sarcastic comments or awkward regrets. Just … **nothing**.

Is Gimli regretting what he wrote? Is that it? He didn’t mean it? What if he doesn’t want to meet up anymore? What if he sends word any minute now that, ‘Sorry, but I don’t want to see you, it was a mistake’…?

Anxiously continuing to worry his bottom lip, Legolas glances at his phone. Should he text him? Say something about the nightly message? Should he just ignore it?

This isn’t just – this isn’t like in one of those stories, when he could do whatever, the writer would make sure things got well in the end. When everything would work out fine and there’d always be a light at the end of the tunnel. This isn’t some story like that. This is _real_.

He can’t sit still. He keeps walking back and forth for a while, thoughts forming a vortex, wild and irrepressible, which keeps sucking him in – deeper and deeper down into dark doubts.

Maybe he should just … just not go.

No! He can’t do that. Can’t just abandon Gimli like that. Then their friendship – is it friendship? It has to be. Surely – it would fall apart like glass hitting a stone floor. He can’t ruin everything like that!

Needing to do something, _anything_ to settle his thudding heartbeat and trembling hands, he starts unpacking everything, putting the items on the bed. Clothes and accessories and shoes are soon spread all-over the pristine sheets, alongside his favourite novel (a well-thumbed copy of _The Silmarillion_ ). Then, he starts trying them on in all various combinations and doing silly impersonations in front of the mirror. To shut out his inner voice, he puts on his favourite playlist on highest volume, not caring if it may disturb neighbouring guests. (Anyway, the hotel has thick walls; it’s been built by Dwarves, after all.)

It barely works.

Then, at 11 AM, his phone blinks to life. Legolas stills in the middle of a ridiculous pose, heart leaping to his throat.

It’s Gimli. The words are tentative. Not really like Gimli’s – they are usually so stout and proud and, well. Neck growing hot, the young Elf pushes away the unfinished thought.

‘Are we still meeting today?’

 _Oh thank the Valar!_ flashes through Legolas’ mind like lightning. He practically collapses on the nearest chair.

‘Yes! Of course!’ he replies. Then, adds (because _what if_ …); ‘If you still want to.’

‘Naturally!’ Relieved, Legolas breathes out slowly. ‘Twelve thirty then? The Prancing Pony is quite easy to find. Just round the corner of Central Street. Look for the park and then just head west and it should be right in front of you. The sign is green with a white horse on it.’

The park … They had driven past it last night. They ought to be a taxi that could take him there. He is very glad for having been given some pocket money for such a purpose.

‘Okay, thank you! I’ll see you there, then.’

A final time he looks at the mirror. Tries to find a confident poise, without uncertainly hunched shoulders. Okay. Deep breaths. He can do this. He can do this.

* * *

‘Okay, thank you! I’ll see you there, then.’

Thank Aulë!

The lasting terror, while not quite squeezed from his bones yet, fades for the moment and Gimli manages to heave himself up from the seat. Legolas has either not seen the message or he’s forgotten about it; or, most likely, he’s “forgotten” about it.

Either way, Gimli is glad. He’ll just – just avoid that certain topic when they meet up and talk.

Oh Mahal.

They’re going to meet.

In an hour.

OH MAHAL’S BEARD.

When he grabs his keys and wallet and, grabbed by an unexpected hurricane of energy, dashes from his room, footsteps thundering down the stairs, his Da pops his head out of the kitchen.

“Gimli, where are you going?”

“Meeting a friend downtown!” he cries, hastily donning his boots.

He looks at himself in the hall mirror, something which usually never happens. He’s a proud and strong Dwarf, well aware of his finer qualities with no need to exaggerate his handsomeness. Still, does his beard look OK? Maybe he’d have braided it once more. Maybe this red shirt isn’t good enough … He twists his head a little, gaze yet fixed on his glass counterpart, adding: “I’m borrowing the car. Is that all right?”

“Sure, son. Just don’t crash into anything. Coming back for dinner?”  There’s a clattering noise from the kitchen. His Da might have dropped something.

“I’m not sure,” Gimli answers edgily. “There’s no need to wait up.”

He scarcely hears Glóin’s reply, already out of the door.

* * *

**You have 1 new message(s)**

‘Hi Gimli. I’m by the café now, at least judging by the sign above the door. By the way, that is a _pony_ , not a horse; pretty obvious I’d say. But then again I am not surprised you have missed such a thing. Hopefully I’m not lost. I can’t spot your red beard anywhere yet though.’

* * *

Gimli’s breath is knocked from his lungs.

There, by the door, stands a solitary figure: unmoving against the mass of people. Legolas is tall and blonde – the tresses are long and neat, only slightly stirred by the wind and there’s a single thin braid decorating it, falling behind his left ear - and rather pale, as in the description.

And – not very Mannish.

Or a girl, for that matter.

He’s dressed in a pair of tight jeans and a black sweater; a brightly green tank top flashes underneath. His shoes are dark with sharply green laces. There’s a thin silver bracelet on his right wrist and both of his delicately pointed ears are pierced, more than once. But it doesn’t look extravagant or ugly: it suits him shockingly fine. Overall, he is both simply clad but also making quite a few heads turn. Might be because he’s an Elf.

Wait. An Elf?

Torn and confused and embarrassed, because now in retrospect it’s quite obvious that Legolas is an Elf (all that talk about trees, not to mention the snark!), and Gimli isn’t sure what to do, if he should really approach this person or turn away and pretend that it’s nothing – but he can’t just do that. It wouldn’t be fair. It would be outright mean and then he’d lose his beta forever and—

But by Mahal, his face. His _eyes_. They are clear blue like a piece of sky and now quite wide, (worriedly?) scanning the street.

Gimli has seen plenty of Elves, mind. But they had always appeared faceless before. Their flawless, pristine skin and smooth cheeks meant nothing. Legolas’ lips are slightly pouty, but not overly much so; his chin is of course completely clean, but it doesn’t look strange in the Dwarf’s eyes and he wonders if it would feel as soft to the touch as he thinks it would. Their light tilting voices didn’t attract. Now, he is struck by a strong desire to hear Legolas speak, to finally hear his voice, not just having mute lines staring at him.

Obviously not having seen him yet, the Elf shifts and glances around, absently twisting a golden lock of hair around his left forefinger.

Abruptly Gimli is spurred into motion. He crosses the street. Momentarily he loses sight of the Elf, surrounded by tall Men as well as Dwarves and his pulse grows more rapid. Nervously, he tries smoothening down his beard. Will the Elf be okay with it? He knows he’s a Dwarf, sure, but still. Maybe he doesn’t really like Dwarves that much really.  What if he finds him repulsive? Too short, too alien, his hands too rough and his voice too deep? What if they won’t work together in real life like they do online? _What if--?_

All right. This is it. Deep breaths.

He marches up to the Elf and clears his throat.

“Hello there! Are you called Legolas, by any chance?”

The Elf startles, turning around. He stares at him for a second, eyes widening. Gimli looks back at him, meeting the gaze; he has to crane his neck, and now he notices that the Elf’s breaths are ever so slightly audible, despite the rather heavy traffic around them. He’s never thought the Firstborn breathed so loud.

_Is he just as nervous?_

Then, the Elf’s face crack up in a beaming smile. And by Mahal, he’s _beautiful_.

“Yes, that’s me,” he says. His voice is clear and soft and Gimli shivers momentarily at hearing it, finally - Legolas’ _voice_. “You must be Gimli.” He extends a hand. The digits are long and slender, like the rest of him.

“I must be. Pleased to meet you.”

He takes the hand, soft in his own rougher one. For a moment, they just stand there, hand in hand. He’s pretty sure the Elf can feel his rapid heartbeat, but Legolas’ face is somewhat difficult to read.

“Um, should we go inside?” Gimli says then, a bit awkwardly, releasing him.

“Of course. Lead the way, Master Dwarf,” Legolas says.

The Elf follows him inside, a small bell ringing as the door opens. Inside, it’s warmer and it’s rather crowded; both youths and office workers have gathered, lunching with friends and colleagues. “Let’s order something,” the Elf murmurs.

Gimli can’t quite take his eyes off of him. It takes him a moment to reply.

“Of… of course,” he says, quietly cursing his inaptness. He should be calm and polite and _normal_ ; not acting like some love-struck fool! “Let’s.”

Today, Butterbur is there, the barista smiling merrily as they approach the counter. He puts a newly polished cup on a nearby shelf before moving to stand behind the cash register. “Good day, sirs! What will you have today?”

“Just a simple black coffee, please. Um…”

“A latte, please,” the Elf fills in smoothly.

The man nods, humming. “Anything else?”

“Oh,” the Elf says, rapidly scanning the menu; “two raspberry muffins, please.”

“It’ll be just a minute, Master Elf. There’ll be some coming fresh out of the oven just now.”

“Thank you.”

As the man quickly and accurately prepares their orders, Gimli shifts from foot to foot, trying to keep his pulse in check.

It’s happening.

It’s finally happening.

Legolas is there, breathing and _real_ and so shockingly gorgeous. The Elf, in turn, appears to have some difficulty keeping still. But his pleasant smile never falters and his tone remains calm, like that of a trained warrior in the heat of battle. When Gimli completely fails to notice their orders being ready, Legolas accepts a tray carrying the two cups, politely thanking the barista. Then the Elf turns to the Dwarf, shocking him out of his stupor. The Elf’s eyes are fixed upon his.

 _Mahal, I hope my beard looks OK,_ Gimli barely manages to think, momentarily blinded by Legolas’ bright smile.

“Let’s find a table before it’s taken. This place is more crowded than I anticipated.”

“There’s a terrace at the back,” Gimli blurts out. “Quite secluded. We could go there, if, if you want to?”

“Certainly! I’d like to be able to enjoy in the sunlight.”

The door is open; here, it’s slightly calmer, and they find a table there, near the adjourning stone wall. This way of the building isn’t facing any large street; there are a few houses there, and one of them has an extensive rose garden, the smell of flowers drifting over. Honey bees hum at a distance. Soft autumn sun floods down here and the Elf relishes it, letting the Dwarf – after politely offering the first chair, which Gimli refused after seeing Legolas’ face relax in the yellow light – take the more shadowed seat. Gimli doesn’t mind. Too much sun only makes his skin itch anyway.

“So,” he says at length, grasping wildly at any subject he can come up with. “Where are you from, then? I mean, have you always lived in Mithlond?”

“Well, I’m born in Mirkwood, in the north,” Legolas says. Gimli nods. He’s heard of the city, known for its extensive parks and surrounding forests, since it’s an old Elf abode. “I’m an only child. When my mother died, when I was five, father grew tired of living there. Old painful memories, I think. So we moved to Mithlond. Father purchased a mansion there.”

“Ah. Yes. I have a cousin there,” Gimli fills in.

“You seem to have a lot of cousins.”

“Well, I do but I am only really close to Fíli and Kíli, since they live here. They often cause me a great deal of pain, but also much amusement.”

There’s a pause. Gimli stirs his coffee – although there’s no need for it – and the Elf takes a moment to look more closely at the surroundings. He doesn’t quite know what to say at first.

“Myself, I don’t have any close cousins or other family that I spend time with, other than my father. But my friends the twins, Elladan and Elrohir and Aragorn – he’s a Man from Minas Tirith originally, their foster brother – but anyway, they’re rather close to me. I went to kindergarten with them. But then my father had me home-schooled and, well, it’s become a bit lonely, I don’t get to see them as much now.” The Elf trails off, taking a sip of the latte.

* * *

To begin with conversation is staggering, and he worried over every word. Then, after a few minutes, it’s easier. The words flow and Gimli nods, humming in response – Legolas likes that noise, coming from deep down, as if it is rooted in the earth itself.

He is unlike anything that Legolas has previously imagined.

He has seen Dwarves before; met and talked with them, especially those brief two years he lived in Edoras, which is close to Aglarond, famous for its Dwarven settlements within the Glittering Caves. But never to this extent. And he’s never had monthly-long contact with them beforehand.

And he’s never really _looked_ at them either.

Gimli is short and stout and his hands look very strong. His shirt sits tight around his biceps. His red hair is slightly curled at the edges and he repeatedly tries to smoothen it out – probably unconsciously - while Legolas wonders why he does that. His hair looks just fine and Legolas is quite curious: it’s rougher than Elven hair, and he’d like to run his fingers through it, to feel the texture.

The thought makes his face heat up and he silently prays that the Dwarf doesn’t notice.

The Dwarf’s beard is neatly combed; parts of it braided thickly, the ends of the plaits marked by metal clasps. His skin is darker than Legolas’ own, rougher but not necessarily flawed or ugly. His jeans are frayed at the edges, having seen better days.

All in all, he’s just the kind of person his father would oppose to him associating with. If only he _knew_ …!

Suddenly realizing that he’s staring, Legolas looks away, toward the nearby garden. Maybe choosing to wear tight jeans was a bad idea. He tugs at the bottom of his jumper.

“You all right?” Gimli asks. His voice is earthy and warm.

“Yes, yes,” Legolas says hurriedly. Needing to occupy himself with something, anything, lest he bursts, he picks up one of the muffins and hands it over the table. “Here. Have one.”

“Oh? I thought – but thanks, anyway. You hadn’t needed.”

The Dwarf takes the offering and briefly, their hands touch - just the slightest brush of fingertips against bare skin. Legolas’ breath hitches. Also Gimli seems to have frozen. For a moment, time goes still and there’s not a single sound and – _Oh, Valar,_ Legolas manages to think once he finally manage to grasp his senses.

Tight jeans were a very, _very_ bad idea.

He withdraws and takes another, deeper sip of the latte. Okay. Calm down. For heaven’s sake, this is their first meeting as _friends_ , not some romantic first _date_! It’s just a meeting between friends over a cup of coffee. Just a _meeting_!

If only Gimli’s dark eyes would stop staring at him like that … How is he supposed to be able to calm down without a fair chance?

“So, um, anyway,” he murmurs, tracing the rim of the cup, desperately trying to bring up some everyday topic. “So, what’re you going to do once you’ve finished high school? Any plans for the future?”

“Yes,” Gimli nods. “Once I’ve finished, I was thinking about taking a break, apply for work. Start studying in a year or so. I’ve simply tired of college: I need to do something _practical_. I’ve worked for some summers, at different places and helping out my father – he owns a jewellery workshop, but he’s getting older and, well. Since I got my driver’s license last autumn I’ve helped him out with deliveries and such – but I don’t have my own car and he doesn’t like me borrowing his all the time. Anyway, I’ve been saving up some money and am currently searching for an apartment of my own.”

“Mm. That sounds nice.”

And Gimli’s voice is quite pleasant to listen to too …

“And you?”

“I – I’ve no idea really,” Legolas says, a bit uncertain, struggling not to start biting his nails. (It’d be dreadful to ruin them.) “I’m not of age yet, and father’s kind of adamant of wanting to have me ‘where he can keep an eye on me’ as he puts it.”

Gimli’s mouth forms an O, and he flushes slightly under the beard. The Elf can’t help but thinking that it’s for some other reason than a sudden realization. “I keep forgetting it’s different for Elves,” he says. “Isn’t it at 20 or something?”

“Yes,” Legolas nods. He scrunches up his nose in annoyance and a smile tugs at Gimli’s lips: the Elf looks insanely _cute_. “I’ve told him I can look after myself and really, I’m tired of just sitting there, in my room, having no purpose. I … Well, I did send in an application for LAW Uni – umm, Lórien Art and Writing – and hope to be accepted. It’s a boarding school down in the south. I’ve somehow managed to fool father into thinking it’s a Law and Economy line I’ll be attending. He’ll be _insane_ when he finally figures it out. Luckily – well, I’d guess you could say _luckily,_ from a certain point of view at least - he’s too busy working to do any proper research.”

Gimli doesn’t like the shadow that falls on the Elf’s face as he says this, and something tugs in his chest; it’s painful and sudden, this realization that he doesn’t want Legolas to look so troubled and ... and _unhappy_.

“I’m sure he’ll come around,” Gimli says and clears his throat, consciously stilling his hands before he can raise either one in the Elf’s direction. “He’s your Da and he’ll realize you’re not a child any longer, and that you can make your own decisions. Well. I think so, at least.”

The Elf smiles; unable to not be encouraged by the Dwarf’s words, however gruff they may be.

“What of your family?” Legolas says curiously. “You said your father’s a jeweller?”

“Yes, he is. My mother died when I was little, too.” They share a moment of silence; a mutual understanding of loss passes between them. Then it’s over and Gimli smiles fondly. “But it’s a long time ago. I’m an only child. Da is patiently waiting for me to move out, I think. I ask to borrow his workshop sometimes to teach myself the art of jewellery making, but keep taking over it, nearly locking him out of his own shop. He might have tired with my antics of late nights up, pouring music through the speakers at ungodly hours and the occasional video game night with my friends, well, mainly my cousins but there’s Dwalin and Nori too, they attend the same school as I. And I’m not, well, not doing it on purpose of course, bothering him at night I mean. I just, sort of, keep forgetting? Sometimes I think he wants to tug his beard off and mine as well in exasperation.”

Abruptly Legolas starts laughing. The sound is bright and clear, much like the Elf himself; Gimli isn’t unaware of the way people sitting at the other tables spread over the porch suddenly hush and twist their heads. Elves make a small minority here at Erebor and very few ever take to visiting the Prancing Pony.

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me!” Legolas says, chuckles fading but mirth lingering in his eyes. “I admit, I have similar habits, but can barely use headphones without inducing my father’s wrath. The sharp hearing of Elves, you know,” he says, gesturing toward his own ears and Gimli’s gaze is drawn to the sharp tip, so elegantly alien and fragile-looking.

“Aye. It’s said you folk could pinpoint the exact location of a gunshot two miles off by hearing alone. A theory which I _highly_ doubt,” Gimli says with a smirk. “Your high and mighty heads are probably full of too much fluff to decipher such complex information.”

Legolas almost collapses over the table, brimming over with giggles, and the Dwarf swiftly has to reach out to save their drinks and muffins from being crushed.

“What - fluff! Valar, I’ve got to remember that.” The Elf sharply wheezes for breath, doubling over and his cheeks turn red; and momentarily Gimli worries for the Elf’s welfare. “ _Fluff_! Got to tell the twins. _Definitely_.”

* * *

The Dwarf looks at him amused, but his heart warms and almost _physically_ swells up at seeing the Elf, so openly laughing and his gorgeous eyes twinkling, and, is there a pair of tiny dimples on his cheeks? They too are _far_ too endearing to be allowed. Aulë! That the Elf has to be so distracting!

He’s simply …

Simply _stunning_.

 _By Mahal!_ he thinks. He has a strong urge to reach out, to abandon the cups and spill the coffee on the wooden floor, take the Elf by the shoulders and press his lips to his – and – and, oh by Aulë! He can’t be sitting here, thinking like that! The Elf would freak out for sure!

_I’ve got it bad._

It takes every atom in his body to stifle the urge and keep sitting, leant back, watching the Elf compose himself from the giggle attack.

If only he’d stop being so, so … adorable!

_I’ve got it really, really bad._

* * *

When Butterbur arrives at last with the receipt, Legolas quickly pulls out his wallet but Gimli says, holding up a hand; “No, no, it’s my treat. You’re the guest.”

The Elf reluctantly abides. “Fine. But next time I’ll pay.”

“Very well.” Adding some extra coins for tip, the Dwarf turns to his companion. “Are we feeling finished?”

“Yes, I’m quite full and also curious; you said that Helm’s Deep is nearby?” The Elf stands,

Gimli grins. “Yeah. We could go see if there’s anything on the agenda today or in the nearest few days.”

“That sounds good.”

Together, they make their way from The Prancing Pony and out on the street. The worst lunch traffic has now passed and the city is quieter. They pass by a row of shops and Gimli startles when the Elf suddenly pulls them to halt, exclaiming: “A second hand shop! You never told me there was one. Let’s go!”

“Wait,” he barely manages to say before he is more or less hauled inside the shop which, during all his years in Erebor, he’s never before set his foot in.

It has a faint but pleasant scent of homeliness and in the background some music is being played. Not the ordinary pop that one may hear at the average shopping mall, but something somewhat friendlier and softer to the ears. Legolas dives quickly into the heart of the boutique. Muttering on his breath about the craziness of Elves, Gimli stomps after him.

“We never agreed on this,” he says when he catches up with the Elf, who’s looking through a rack of leather jackets.

“Well, as you said, I’m the guest and thus as the host, you should be kind to show me around your hometown. Including second-hand shops. Oh, look at this! And only 5£50.”

Gimli can’t stop the groan. “By Aulë…” He’s stuck now, he realizes, with no little amount of horror. Stuck in _The Treasure Trove_ with a mad Elf and no way out.

The Elf in turn pays his pained whimper no or little heed. He’s now moved on from jackets to trousers. “And this! They’re _perfect_.”

Legolas turns slightly, clearly excited as he moves from item to item, but still holding onto the jeans, his back momentarily turned to the Dwarf. Squinting somewhat in the dim light, Gimli cocks his head and tries picturing said pair on the Elf.

 _Ah_.

A strangled noise leaves Gimli’s throat. Well. They’d probably fit him quite nicely…quite nicely indeed. Especially if bending -

_No! No! Don’t go there now!_

His pulse is racing for the altogether wrong reasons.

“Just a moment, all right? Five minutes, maximum,” the Elf suddenly says as if finally realizing the Dwarf’s plight.

“I’ll hold you onto that,” Gimli – barely – manages to reply. His gaze wants to travel back to inappropriate places. By Mahal, what if someone _sees_?

The five minutes turn out to be … well, more than five minutes. And by the time he reaches the cashier, Legolas is carrying more than just one piece of clothing. But he looks so _happy_ and vibrant and Gimli doesn’t want to ruin it for him.

It’s quite amusing actually, watching him dash to and fro, and seeing the brows on the cashier (a young Man, probably his first day at work, poor thing) raise very high near the hairline as the pile of various items is presented on the desk.

Once they’re finally outside again, the Elf, carrying two overstuffed paper bags, looks at him quite sheepishly. “Sorry about that, it went quite overboard,” he says, the tips of his ears turning red. Gimli glances at the ears, curious if they often turn that colour, depending on the Elf’s mood. “But I saw one of the blogs I’m following talk about this very Treasure Trove and I just couldn’t _resist_.”

Still not quite over the thought of Legolas in those jeans, Gimli awkwardly fumbles for words.

“Ah, it’s no trouble, really. But it was some quite _long_ five minutes.”

“Uhm, sorry,” the Elf says sheepishly but Gimli doesn’t miss his smirk.

* * *

“So this must be the famous Legolas.”

Gimli’s ears turn red. Famous! How does Dwalin even _know_? The heavily tattooed Dwarf only smirks at him, and the red-head glares back. Of course. His cousins – who else?

Legolas takes it in good stride, smiling pleasantly. “Hello, and yes, I guess I must be.” He holds out a hand and Dwalin takes it and shakes it firmly. The Elf’s doesn’t even blink at the strong grasp. “And you?”

“Dwalin, at your service.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Dwalin. Gimli mentioned you in one of his emails, I think.”

“Nothing bad, hopefully.”

The Elf grins. “Oh no, I assure you nothing as such. His exasperation was rather aimed at his two cousins, if I remember correctly.”

Dwalin looks weirdly amused. “I rather like this one, Gimli,” he says to the other Dwarf. “Make sure to keep him around.”

Gimli is too busy spluttering to form any sensible words as Dwalin pats him heavily in the back, nearly making him fall over, and for a moment he’s sure that Kíli and Fíli have spilled their ‘matchmaking plans’ to the other Dwarf explaining this knowing glint that Dwalin has in his dark eyes.

Before Gimli can recover, Dwalin withdraws. “Well, I got to go. It was nice meeting you. Good luck, Gimli!”

He’s sent spluttering again.

Legolas just smirks. Oh, that _snark_. Should be forbidden. “Is he a classmate?”

“Sort of, yeah. But more of a pain in the ass.” He’s not sure on how to elaborate more than that to be honest. Their friendship is rather complicated.

“Now I don’t think he seemed that bad…”

“He’s always nice on the first day. Can be heck of a frightening guy, that Dwarf. I think he trains Taekwondo or whatever it was.”

“No worries,” Legolas smiles, “I’ve got a black belt.”

Gimli chokes. Or would have had he been drinking anything. “You serious?”

The Elf just smirks mysteriously, refusing to give any clear answers. Naturally. Elves. Secretive and odd, the lot of them, even if this one has a very, _very_ sexy –

Which he means to say good. Pretty. Beautiful. Yes. A beautiful smile. Very … elfish. Nothing about his ass, even if the curve ...

Nope. Really.

* * *

“Oh,” the Elf mutters disappointedly as they reach the notice board placed on the wall outside Helm’s Deep. “We’ve missed today’s show.”

“No matter,” Gimli says immediately. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

“Really?” Legolas asks. “I mean, if you’ve got other things to do…”

“Of course. I’m not really busy otherwise. It’s Friday and we hardly have any classes anyway for the remainder of term.” He looks at the board, at the large poster attached to it. “Let’s see; they show ‘Beren and Lúthien’ ...”

“I’ve only heard of it, but never seen it,” the Elf admits quietly. His eyes gleam.

Gimli is usually skeptical to romantic theatre like that, but the look on Legolas’ face has him giving in, all protests dying before they reach his tongue. “It’s gotten some good reviews; I think it’s worth a look,” he finds himself saying and the Elf’s eyes lights up. “It starts at half past three. So, what do you say? We could meet here by then, or …?”

“I’d gladly meet up with you earlier,” Legolas fills in quickly. “I have nothing else to do.”

“Then it’s settled! Twelve o’clock, maybe? We can meet by The Prancing Pony.”

The Elf beams like a living ray of sun. “Sounds good.”


	9. Part 8

The way Gimli had looked at him yesterday; at the shop … Gimli had tried hiding it, of course. But the Elf had noticed the slight darkening of his eyes, pupils dilating. Just thinking about it makes Legolas’ blood coil with sudden excitement; like – like he wants to be looked at like that again. Not just by anyone, but caught by the Dwarf’s intensive gaze only.

Maybe …

He thinks of the message. Despite what common sense had yelled at him not to do, he had gone back to it that night and re-read it, coming to the realization that the words weren’t quite Gimli’s.

And yet …

* * *

When they meet again, the Elf is wearing some of the clothes he bought yesterday, including the jeans. Which undoubtedly proves to be quite distracting for the Dwarf.

They share another cup of coffee, this time with chocolate chip cookies. They take their time eating and talking, and their conversation thankfully has only a very few awkward halts today. The sun shines bright, so they sit back by the terrace again enjoying the warm light. It’s peaceful and Gimli can’t recall laughing this much in month – the Elf’s tongue is even sharper face-to-face.

But suddenly, in the middle of their conversation Legolas holds up his hand, nearly dropping his cookie. The abrupt movement causes Gimli to almost scald himself on his coffee and he mutters something in Khuzdul, reaching for a napkin.

Then he realizes what he’s just admitted.

Legolas is staring at him. “Wait, wait, wait. Hang on. You thought I was Mannish?”

A brief pause. “Yes.”

“And a _girl_?”

“Er,” Gimli mutters sheepishly into his beard. “Yes.”

The Elf stares at him. There’s a beat of silence. “What on Arda made you think _that_?”

“Well, I think it was the painted finger nails.” He actually glances at the Elf’s hands as he says this; there’s not polish now. Or maybe just that transparent sort which Gimli can’t understand the point of, since it’s, you know, _transparent_. Then he crosses his arms over his broad chest, defiantly: “I blame it on your tumblr!”

Legolas’ fine eyebrows climb further up his forehead. “Why were you so worried about my race and gender anyhow? I mean – as a writer.”

“And _you_ did not wonder the same about me?” Gimli retorts.

“Well… Not at first, as I beta read. Then it was just work for a friend and I didn’t care that much. Though, all right - later, when we decided to meet I was curious,” the Elf says sheepishly, letting the incredulous expression fall. “I figured out you were a Dwarf pretty fast though and had a hunch you were male. But why Mannish? Why’d you not think I was Elvish or – Valar! – a Hobbit, even? I’ve written in Sindarin on various sites; you could’ve run an online translation and figured it out from there, it wouldn’t take a genius!”

“Well, Hobbits don’t wear shoes. And reblogging pictures of said items? Big give-away. Then it was self-denial, I think. I, the proud Dwarf, didn’t want to find myself corrected by an _Elf_ , of all! So I rather thought it was a highly educated Mannish girl, more content with such a fact. It wouldn’t be as … well, as awkward.”

Legolas suddenly smirks smugly. His teeth are very, very white. “Ah, the legendary stiff necks of Durin’s folk! No wonder you’re so stalwart. But it keeps our discussions interesting.”

“Naturally,” is the swift response; “But Elves have stiff necks too and their snarkiness surpasses that of all others!”

“I shall take that as a compliment, dear Dwarf.”

* * *

Time rolls, and they are shocked to find it’s already past two. Needing to stretch their legs, they walk around town, browsing the shops while talking vividly. They discuss the future and the past and music differences and – it is inevitable – the story they are working on.

It’s odd; Gimli always thought of it as _he_ was working on the fic and Legolas just helped out. But now it’s _we, us, them_ ; and it’s completely natural to say so.

They walk through the park. Legolas especially likes that. There’s an old oak by the centre, and they settle in its shadow on a park bench. The Elf doesn’t sit at once though. For a moment he stands by the tree, hand on the bark, just staring at nothing in particular. At last, Gimli concernedly asks if he’s all right and pokes his side; once, and then again when there’s no immediate response other than an annoyed grunt.

“Hey! What’s gotten to you?”

The Elf draws back and smiles mysteriously. “The tree fares well, that’s all. I was just checking on it. There’s a lot of bustle here and the air is not as clean as in the open forests, but the oak is content.”

“Okay, well, you’re the Elf; it makes sense you talk to them like one talks to people,” Gimli says with a roll of eyes and mutters something unintelligible in Khuzdul.

The Elf lets out a short laugh. “Well, I hear Dwarves are prone to talking to rock, and after walking by many a construction field I can only draw the same conclusion.”

“Elves!” Gimli mutters. “Now come on. It’s nearly three o’clock and we need to buy our tickets.”

* * *

The heroine is clad in clear blue and sparkling white, and the hero is carrying a shining piece of plastic armour with red streaks of fake blood on it, and they are standing beneath a tree that looks oddly real despite being made out of papier mâché and thick layers of colours. All is still and fair and silent, just like the calm before the storm.

He can recall the story only slightly. It’s the most popular fairy-tale of this Age, or perhaps any Age; while not knowing all the details, everyone knows about the Silmarils. The story may have been adapted over the long years and this is only one take among many. Gimli hasn’t ever really liked dramas like these and not really cared to watch them. But, despite that, he can sort of understand why Legolas likes them. And the actors are superb. The maiden is being played by a Mannish girl but it matters little (she wears fake pointed ears and is quite beautiful) since this is Erebor and there aren’t many elves living here; still, it’s a bit odd, considering the greatness of this role. Gimli can easily imagine the harsh battle that must have ensued during the casting.

He glances at his companion. They’d managed to get their tickets early and find good seats, up on the balcony on the first row, where the view is perfect. But Gimli’s eyes keeps straying away from the stage, much to his embarrassment, and the dialogue swishes over his ears like soft cotton.

Legolas is sitting leaning in slightly, eyes wide and mouth a little parted, like he’s absorbing the story wholeheartedly and unaware of his own body. One of his hands lies on the armrest, the other on his knees, the palms open and muscles relaxed. His hair falls like a golden curtain across his shoulders and seems to shine even in the dimness of the audience hall – just like his skin, which is glowing like by an inner sun.

Wait. What?

“Err … Legolas,” he whispers, and the Elf twitches, turning his head ever so slightly to look at him. Not wanting to disturb the silence of the hall, Gimli lowers his voice as much as he can. He’s pretty sure the Elf can hear his every breath with those sharp ears of his. “Legolas, are you supposed to be glowing?”

He can’t remember this from the lessons in anatomy. But maybe because before now he’s not though much about elves and certainly not about their anatomy (other than to mutter darkly about their unnecessary height).

“Huh?”

“Glowing. You’re - I mean, you’re _literally_ _glowing_.”

Briefly he reaches out, touching the Elf’s bared wrist, lying there so close to his hand. It’s warm and soft and Gimli, when feeling blood rushing to places it oughtn’t, swiftly draws back, praying that the dimness of the room will hide his reaction. Legolas doesn’t seem to notice, blinking like a cat at him with eyes glittering in the dark as comprehension dawns on him.

“Oh!” he whispers, quietly enough to not bother any of the audience but loud enough for Gimli to be able to just pick up the words. “It’s because I’m an Elf. Don’t worry, it’s completely natural. It’s when an Elf _doesn’t_ glow that you need to start worrying.”

“ _Elves_!” Gimli murmurs, but there’s nothing ill in his tone and Legolas smiles slightly, turning his gaze back toward the stage. “Right. Of course. No checking for pulse when using first aid then, just the glow. Why am I even surprised?”

The stillness upon the stage is breaking now, as the black-clad servants of evil are nearing the hero and heroine, weapons drawn. It’s such a sharp contrast, the light focused on the pair and their entwined hands and the red shadows of the enemies; and Gimli tries focusing on the scene and the actors’ lines but finds it impossible.

He blinks and blinks but the image of Legolas’ skin radiating with inner light is imprinted on his eyelids, and his hand tremors and he bites his lip, fighting to keep still. He just wants to – wants to feel the bared wrist again. Feel the warm glow. And those soft-looking strong hands, the long digits – how would it feel to hold one of those hands in one of his own?

Sharply he looks away. He’s been staring again. The Elf, sensing the movement, glances at him, wordlessly asking if he’s OK with that single glance and Gimli understands him and nods without words, too. He’s OK. Really, he is. Just. Needs to get his breathing back under control.

At the nod, the Elf smiles a little, before returning his attention to the play below. Mahal, that smile … !

Gimli’s ribcage feels all sore again.

* * *

“Thank you for taking me. It was fun,” Legolas says when they exit the theatre, side by side. Gimli’s pulse is still pounding slightly faster than normal.

“Do you want to do anything else?” Gimli asks.

The Elf checks his cell-phone; it’s past eight o’clock. His father might start wondering soon where he is.

“I could show you my place. I have a few games,” the Dwarf says then, like an afterthought, and Legolas grins, putting away the phone. His father can wait.

“I’d love to. Please lead the way, Master Dwarf.”


	10. Part 9

When they come to his house Gimli is suddenly struck by a fair small panic attack – oh god, Legolas is here inside his house live and real and now! ( _Don’t let there be underwear strewn all over my bedroom floor! and what if Da has friends over, how do I explain the Elf? wait was it today Aunt Dís was going to visit? oh Mahal don’t let there be underwear …!)._

As the Dwarf struggles to return to sanity and speech and tries not stare (too much) at the Elf’s lovely behind, Legolas looks around the cottage, shyly squeezed in between two blocky apartments, and literarily _beams_ , praising the old wooden floors and the big hearth in the living room and the homely photos sitting over the mantelpiece.

Then, the Elf proceeds to prod at everything, including the Xbox and the run-down television set and one thing leads to the other. Apparently Legolas’ father isn’t fond of noise-making gaming sets, meaning Gimli spent the first eight minutes thoroughly explaining which buttons to press when, after which he graciously allowed the Elf to choose something from his collection on the shelf.

Trust the Elf to pick something that requires a ridiculous amount of showing off.

“No-no-no, not _that_ button, you press _that_ button not the one on the left! _That one,_ yes! And now you –”

“Stop giving me instructions, you told me sixteen minutes ago and I defeated that boss entirely on my own!”

“Which still only counts as one! _Mahal._ Okay, next part of this level is easy except for crossing that bridge, it’s a bit tricky, you have to watch out for the guards. When I say ‘now’, move forward and dodge the – by Aulë I told you to _dodge_! When I said ‘now’! Did I say ‘now’? Press the button!”

“I am pressing it! And the other one!” And there’s a string of elfish, meant to be foul but sounding oddly fair. “Valar, a plague on Dwarves and their stiff necks!”

“You’re one to talk, pointy-ear.”

“Oh, shut up.”

One of the characters on the screen takes an abrupt tumble off the cliff and the Elf pokes Gimli’s side causing his grip on the console to slip for a moment, and with nimble fingers Legolas catches it and presses _that_ button. The second character swiftly follows the first down the abyss.

“ _Legolas_!”

“…oops?”

* * *

There’s popcorn and dried banana chips (the Elf had insisted on buying them on the way to the house; apparently they’re his favourite sort of sweets) spread all over the floor when Glóin comes home, along with Aunt Dís who _was_ meant to visit today actually, even if Gimli had forgotten it, bringing tea and homemade cookies in her wake. The two adult Dwarves pause in the doorway rather startled when hearing vicious battle-cries emerging from the living room.

“… that button!”

“Now who’s in charge here?”

“Hello boys,” Dís says and then pauses when seeing the pair responsible for the mess. It’s not every day an Elf finds his way to this Dwarven couch, after all, and judging by the way Gimli is trying to claw the gaming console from the pale hands they aren’t strangers. Classmates, perhaps? Then she remembers hearing her sons giggle like madmen not long ago, talking vividly amongst themselves about their cousin Gimli and his new ‘friend’ – and she has to hide a smile. “What’s all this fuss about?”

“Oh! Aunt Dís!” Gimli tries straightening himself up and the Elf victoriously snatches the console back. “Um, hello. Err, this is, um, Legolas, my - friend. A friend,” he repeats because he stumbles and wants to add another syllable to that word which is just embarrassing and awkward and he realizes he’s trying to catch a glimpse of Legolas’ ass again.

“Hi,” Legolas offers a hand, very politely and the tiny shadow of a frown graces his brow as he adds, “I’m sorry about this mess, Mrs Dís. We’ll clean it up right away.”

“I was more concerned of your battle than the floor, we heard you all the way to the door,” the bearded woman says mirthfully, “though I’m not sure about your dad, Gimli. He’s in the kitchen by the way, unpacking some things I brought. Why don’t you go help him sort it out and set the table?”

A ploy: that’s what it is. A ploy to lure him out of the room so that she can interrogate Legolas. Gimli grumbles rather loudly – it’s like the plot of a cheesy film where the fairy godmother’s going to ask the courting prince of his intentions! Ugh. So humiliating. Legolas notices, of course, and smirks, and if he’s afraid of the upcoming questioning the Elf doesn’t show it the least.

“See you in a bit.”

“Yeah. By the way, you’re going to want tea, right? Two sugars?”

“Yep. Thanks.”

Dís observes the swift exchange with keen eyes. Once the young red-beard has rounded the corner, she turns to the Elf. “You must be Legolas then. My sons have told me about you – Gimli’s cousins. They say you and Gimli met online?”

“Yes. We’re writing this thing together. Well, he is mostly writing. I’m – helping out,” the Elf offers hesitantly, sitting down again because it’s a bit awkward when the woman isn’t his eye-height. He shuffles his hands in his pockets a bit nervously. The Dwarf-woman – Gimli’s Aunt obviously – has very sharp opaque eyes. What’s she thinking?

“It’s very nice to meet you at last.” At last? How long has she known about him? How long has Gimli’s cousins known? Legolas feels a bit dizzy, suddenly. Had the situation been reverse, him bringing Gimli to his home, Thranduil would have raised a graceful unimpressed eyebrow, glaring darkly and then probably suggesting they’d better spend time somewhere else because of all the Dwarf germs that apparently would be spread about. Oh Valar, this woman is going to grill him on a spit! Maybe she thinks he’s a weird two thousand year old creep that kidnaps babies and eats them, or – or something else that horrid!

“How long have you known him?”

“Um, a couple of months. We started writing back in January.” Only four months – for an Elf that’s virtually nothing. For a Dwarf, a little more; but he’s still shocked at how in such a short time-span he’s managed to bond with Gimli in a closer way than anyone else, maybe even Arwen and Aragorn – that’s saying something. Yep, Gimli’s Aunt will definitely think he’s some age-old weirdo.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Dís says pleasantly and Legolas wants to shuffle his feet or something but can’t, it’s not elf-like or dignified and his father has drilled enough manners into his head for him to instinctively freeze when his left foot starts twitching nervously. “Now, I am only asking this because with Elves it’s too hard to tell – how old are you? And where are you from, may I ask? Is it a long way?”

“Um, nineteen. I’m living in Mithlond so it’s a bit out, err, my father is here on a business trip and brought me along which is why I was able to visit Gimli. I’ve wanted to visit for ages!” The last part slips out before he can stop it and his ears start burning again. “Not literal ages, of course. Just. Umm. I’ve – we’ve gotten real close,” he finishes rather lamely.

The woman nods and seems to take pity on him and smiles, a genuine smile. “Welcome to Erebor then; though I hope Gimli has enough manners to have already welcomed you! Now, let’s see if the boys have finished clearing up the kitchen. I hope you like carrot cake.” 

* * *

The tea was really nice and his belly is still warm from hot camomile and heady laughter when he departs, the taste of a marvellous piece of carrot cake still on his tongue. Gimli’s Da was really nice, surprisingly so, even if he’s an Elf and they’re Dwarves. He’d readied himself for more weird glances.

Dís was very nice too, oddly approving (she must know more than she let on; maybe from her sons, Fíli and Kíli, because she kept smiling so secretly) and Legolas, unused to having an older female around in such a role, as an Aunt or almost-mother, felt for a moment a surge of longing. His Ada was an only child and there are no Aunts or Uncles around, albeit Legolas has often regarded Elrond as his Uncle. Still, he has no memories of his mother. To be approved by Gimli’s Aunt Dís felt like a monumental achievement and a great relief – one he hadn’t even expected five hours previously.

He wonders if they could play some more games tomorrow.

“I have finished my business here in Erebor,” his father announces when he returns to the hotel, finding the older Elf lounging on the expensive armchair in their room with the latest edition of _Siniath in Arad_ in hand. Thranduil doesn’t let his gaze waver from the economics page as he speaks. He looks neither particluarly pleased or displeased; whatever affairs he had to deal with can't have gone very good but perhaps not too bad either. Legolas hopes it is the latter. When business goes well, his Ada is a lot more pleasant and easier to deal with. “We are leaving tomorrow morning.”

And then Legolas’ stomach drops like a great big chunk of ice.

Leave? Tomorrow? But. Gimli.

_… I don’t want to go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sindarin translations:_  
>  **Siniath** news, tidings  
>  **Arad** daytime, [a] day  
>  _So the title of the Elfish newspaper Thranduil is reading translates to 'News of the Day', basically._


	11. Part 10

It hits him like a spear in the gut, opening a raw wound there and scratching on it only makes it worse: he doesn’t want to leave. Not yet. Not yet.

“Legolas, why aren’t you packing? It will be an early morning and if you delay us so that we miss the flight –” His father’s tone grows more and more dangerous with every word. But Legolas can’t bring himself to care.

He is head over heels. With a _Dwarf_. A _male_ Dwarf, at that. And they live hundreds of miles apart.

What if they can’t see each other anymore? What if it’ll be weeks or months or even _years_ before they can make contact apart from emails and phone-calls? What will they do then? What should _he_ do if that happens?

They had promised to meet though. But it was just words and Legolas knows his father won’t accept it. If he finds out …

“Yes, Ada,” he sighs, his insides tying knots.

Before turning to the open bags lying on the perfectly neat hotel bed, he sends to Gimli: ‘Can you meet up with me by the air-port at eight tomorrow morning? I know you probably have classes, it’s a Monday, but – please.’

* * *

Gimli has prepared half a dozen good-bye speeches and nonsense texts but now, they all appear pointless and lame and he’s forgotten most of it anyway. He feels like stranded on an abandoned island without supplies, or as if he’s fallen down a mining shaft without safety harness; his hands are empty, useless.

He stares helplessly at the Elf before him. The blonde is dressed in the same jumper as when he arrived, but he isn’t smiling bright and his eyes are less clear; even the glow to his skin seems to have dimmed. He shifts from foot to foot. A piece of luggage rests against his left leg.

“So, um,” the Dwarf starts, voice suddenly rough. “You’re leaving.”

“Yes,” Legolas edges. He appears rooted to the ground. “I … I’ll message you once we’ve landed in Mithlond, all right?”

“Sounds good. Don’t let your snarkiness pull down the plane.”

A smirk tugs at the Elf’s lips. “Oh, don’t worry. Couldn’t risk the fine skyline of Erebor, could I?”

But the grin fades and they stare at each other and, Valar, _he doesn’t want to leave._

Abruptly, he kneels before the Dwarf, their eye-heights the same. His ribcage is all sore and might crack, and his hands form tight fists as he breathes slowly. For a moment he waits. The Dwarf holds his stare, waiting too. All is still and breathless and he’s for a moment unsure if he dares. Maybe he shouldn’t. What if Gimli doesn’t…?

Then he leans in. His lips carefully touch the Dwarf’s, and they are a bit rougher than his own but surprisingly soft, and the beard rustles against his skin. It’s swift and chaste and sudden.

Gimli stands utterly still, as if in shock.

Legolas draws back sharply, the tips of his ears swiftly growing red. “I – um – sorry. I didn’t—” But he did.

“No. No, I…”

Gimli reaches up and lays his hands firmly around the Elf’s neck and their lips suddenly meet in a needy open-mouthed kiss. It’s warm and wet and wonderful, involving quite a lot of tongue, and they can probably be seen by the security cameras and the occasional startled passer-by but Legolas doesn’t care. He might be dreaming.

In fact, he’s a bit afraid that he’s dreaming and he clings to Gimli’s shoulders tightly, the T-shirt under his hands getting all wrinkled up, anything to make sure that he won’t wake up in this moment. The Dwarf sighs in the kiss, his beard brushing the Elf’s cheek and Legolas shudders, feeling a bit weak in the knees. His pulse staggers.

Reluctantly they part, still clinging to one another.

“I…”

“Yeah.”

A mechanical voice starts to rattle in the speakers above their heads: _“Passengers of flight F-31 to Mithlond, please make your way to gate 2B. Boarding will begin in fifteen minutes. Passengers of flight F-31 to Mithlond…”_

“We’ll see each other again,” Gimli says; not a question. A statement, a vow.

Legolas nods firmly. They will. He’ll come back. “Besides,” he adds, “we have to finish that story of yours. There’s still the epilogue left.”

“And some more,” Gimli murmurs, stroking the Elf’s cheek fondly.

“And some more,” Legolas agrees and smiles, kissing him for a third final time before he stands, knees slightly stiff. He fumbles to gather his luggage, checking he has everything intact; the Dwarf hands him the last bag, smiling too. But there’s still a weight at the centre of Gimli’s chest pulling down, down, like a stone or heavy gem, fierce and relentless.

He remains standing in the corner of the corridor as the Elf walks away, casting a few glances over his shoulder all the while. Then, he rounds the end of the hall and is out of sight.

* * *

There’s a buzzing in his pocket.

‘Where are you??’ It’s Dwalin. ‘Are you ill? Prof Grey is most displeased at your absence. As am I. You need to take notes for me.’

Gimli shakes his head wordlessly at the text, unable to form any kind of apposite reply right now. Maybe he _is_ ill, if love is a sickness; at least if the wrenching and lurching in his heart is anything to go by.

* * *

The slow minutes before take-off he feels a bit ill and has an urge to abandon his seat and rush out of the plane past security and –

But he can’t do that. Besides, his father is frowning at him, suspicious. Legolas can’t stop himself from staring out the tiny circular window, all until Erebor fades into a tiny dot in the distance before the view is altogether swallowed up by a thick molten cloud.

Three hours left until he can call Gimli. By then, the Dwarf might be in class, too busy to answer; but Legolas wouldn’t be able to stop himself from dialling again, needing to hear his voice.

The journey home is too quiet.


	12. Part 11

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-06-02 02:11:27

 _Hi Gimli! I’ve landed now and am taking a cab home so I’m sending this from my phone. Just wanted to say thank you so much, it was so awesome and lovely to meet you and I hope we can repeat it sometime._ _Loads of hugs,_  
 _Legolas_

* * *

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com   
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-06-02 09:15:54

_Hello Legolas!_

_I’m glad to hear you landed safely without ruining any skylines. I can’t wait until we get another chance to meet. It was marvellous. We should see another play together._

_Hugs,_

_Gimli_

* * *

He’s got Legolas’ postal address now, he suddenly remembers, the Elf having given it to him on a hand-scribbled note before leaving; and an idea starts forming in his head mere milliseconds after he’s hit send.

A letter. A visit. A gift. All three options are very viable. And. Gimli bites his lip, anticipation rising within him. If he could … yeah. That could work. He just need a bit of time and keep it all a secret a while longer and not allow anything to slip in any email or phone call. Yep. Easy.

So, glancing at the digital watch, he opens up a new email document, pondering for a moment before choosing the subject title _Sparking request_ (that will hopefully catch Thorin’s attention, and make the other Dwarf catch his drift. He is after all the son of the owner of the Lonely Mountains Gems Inc.).

Now, what else he needs … is to work up some money to afford an airplane ticket.

* * *

Ever since that incident at the Prancing Pony (wherein Fíli and Kíli had deemed it wise to announce to the world the news of Gimli’s crush. Infuriation. Thing. _That,_ yes) Gimli has found himself cornered, glanced at and questioned more times than he bothers to count, whereupon various fellows (mostly Dwarrows but the occasional curious Hobbit as well) want him to confirm all and any rumours that’s been flying around. Now, it seems, it is the latest news that Gimli son of Glóin has spent the weekend walking around Erebor in the company of an Elf – an Elf! and one not from around here. He nearly dreads returning to school.

Skipping class that Monday morning to go to the airport apparently hadn’t helped the least – when passing by the cafeteria there’s a cry and someone pointing and what in the name of Arda are Kíli and Fíli doing standing there waving a camera around, grinning gleefully like loons?

(He pointedly chooses to ignore them.)

When he reaches him Thorin is standing by his locker and talking with Dwalin, therefore the heavily tattooed Dwarf ends up overhearing their conversation and chuckles like he too knows what’s up.

“So what exactly is it you need?” Thorin asks, sounding a bit on edge and he focuses more on the nearby doorway than his friend, like expecting someone to appear momentarily.

“A small favour. A couple of simple gems for – a small project of mine.”

Still not entirely focused on him, Thorin nods, distractedly, and Dwalin is genuinely smirking now. “Whatever, just email me the details and I’ll see to it later. Now, I’ve got to go.”

That moment the classroom door opens and a hoard of loudly chattering students spill out. A solitary figure frees himself from the group. Ah, right; Bilbo Baggins, Thorin’s other half. Of course. No wonder he’s so distracted. Gimli watches the dark haired Dwarf quickly head off, possessively drawing Bilbo to his side. And Dwalin is still smirking, damn it.

“Look at ‘em go. I’m surprised it took so long for Thorin to realize,” Dwalin says before glancing at the redhead beside him. “So, a sparkling request for a _project_ , huh?”

“Aye.”

“You’re keeping the blonde then,” the Dwarf says (far too loudly because people are tuning in to listen and how is it their business anyway? Gimli glares at them quietly telling them to _begone!_ Just because he’s been seen hanging around Erebor with an Elf on his arm for the last couple of days ...). Outraged at Dwalin’s presumptions, Gimli punches his arm.

“Shut it.”

“By the way, you still owe me one day’s worth of notes.”

“Owe you?! I do all the dirty work, you lousy bastard; I don’t owe you anything, especially not with all the things you’ve been spreading around … !”

“ _I’ve_ been spreading around?” Dwalin counters, incredulous. Then he laughs thunderously: “Oh, lad, I think you’d better be asking Fíli and Kíli about that!”

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: MajesticDwarf@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-06-05 14:22:44

**Subject: Re: Sparkling request**

_Fellow Dwarf-Brother,_

_Upon your request, I have spoken with my father and you are indeed in luck! I shall come by tomorrow afternoon with the package (a set of two stones as demanded)._

_Good luck,_

_Thorin Oakenshield_

_P.S: Furthermore, I believe you ought to check out your tumblr dash shortly. There have been some new interesting video posts circling around. D.S._

* * *

To: MajesticDwarf@ardamail.com  
From: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-06-05 16:10:13

**Subject: Re: re: Sparkling request**

_Thanks! The gift shall be well used. I’ve already begun working. My Da’s quite annoyed at me overtaking his workshop though._

_Highest regards,_

_Gimli_

_Also, **WHO** IN THE NAME OF AULË FILMED **THAT**?!! THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS! THAT KISS IS **SACRED**!! _

* * *

To: G.G.Axes@ardamail.com  
From: MajesticDwarf@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-06-05 19:34:33

**Subject: Re: re: re: Sparkling request**

_Whoa, whoa! That had nothing to do with me!_

_It was probably Kíli and Fíli; they borrowed my camera that’s all. Said something about ‘documentary purposes’. I thought that you were fully aware that they had followed you to the airport on that morning and you gave them permission to go take photos and everything. I mean wklken9uh2HI GIMMIES THIS IS KÍLI AND UMM SOOORRYY BUT WE’D WAITED LIKE FOR ETERNITY FOR U TO GET A BOYFRIEND AND THEN YOU SNUCK OFF LIKE THAT SO HOW COULD WE NOT FOLLOW YOU?! PLUS THAT ELF WAS KINDA HOT, Y U NOT LET FEE AND ME MEET WITH HIM IN PERSON, THAT WAS QUITE RUDE AND DWALIN GOT TO MEET HImkb tbie r87h3b_

_This is Thorin. I have driven those rascals out of my room now. Anyway, I send my deepest regards and will keep my fingers crossed as your Company BrotherBTW HOW OLD IS HE AND IS HE FAKE BLONDE OR REAL BLONDE???IS IT TRUE UR DAD & OUR MOM WALKED IN ON U WHENsorry about that; they are gone for sure this time._

_Good luck,_

_ThorinAND KÍLI AND FÍLI xx_

* * *

Gimli scowls darkly at the screen. He’s not even going to dignify that with a reply.

* * *

* * *

He misses Gimli so much there’s a physical ache in his chest and he tries burying himself in schoolwork and drabble-writing but end up doodling chibi faces with fluffy red beards in his notebooks instead, and his father has sent him more worried glances the past week than in the ten previous years. He doesn’t seem to believe it when Legolas claims he’s only caught a bug and will get better soon, really, in a couple of days he’ll quit wearing overly large knitted sweaters and stop eating ridiculous amounts of ice-cream.

Trying to be patient till the next email or phone call is pure torture.

Thankfully, Arwen immediately senses something is up and tries cheering him up and therefore invites him over as soon as it’s convenient. So Legolas comes over to Elrond’s house for a cuppa and a cookie on a Thursday afternoon to find Arwen polishing her nails by the kitchen table and Elladan lying writhing on the floor. The blonde nearly stumbles over him in surprise.

The dark-haired Elf wheezes something, obviously in great shock, and the Sindar only manages to catch something sounding oddly like; “... the tag! The _tag!_ Oh my god, it’s _too cute_ …!” Then there’s an insane amount of giggling and a bit of hyperventilating, almost like he’s being strangled by a heap of deathly adorable kittens.

Legolas stares at him for a moment, startled and thinking that maybe he should be worried and call for an ambulance or something. “Arwen, what in the love of the Maiar is _wrong_ with him?”

“Oh, don’t bother with him,” Arwen says lightly, totally ignoring her brother and appearing unconcerned. “If you think he’s behaving weirdly you should have seen Elrohir ten minutes ago. Apparently there was this tumblr post.” As if that explains everything.

 _What tumblr post?_ Maybe he’d better unfollow Elladan for a while. And Elrohir, just to be safe.

“Oh-kay,” Legolas answers slowly and wonders if coming over was a bad idea and maybe he should’ve rang Aragorn and asked the Man to pick him up instead. They could’ve gone bowling or something.

But Arwen turns to him then, gesturing at the hot kettle. No escape now. “Tea?” she asks sweetly. “It’s peach mango.”

* * *

Fourteen days later, he receives the final chapter, the grand Epilogue, to Gimli’s – no, _their_ – fic and Legolas finds himself squealing with joy and sigh sadly almost all at once, his chest tightening because this is it, this is the final chapter and they’re soon done with it and Gimli will upload it and then they’ll stop being writer and beta. Then they’ll be … he’s not sure. Friends? Online friends that have met once and like to kiss? Except it was only one kiss. One exceptionally hot kiss. But still.

 _So I was wondering,_ Gimli has written in a PS at the bottom of the email, _if you’d like meeting me soon again?_

 _Like? ‘Like’? I WANT YOU RIGHT NOW,_ Legolas types in the reply, fiercely, thinking _please I want to go back to Erebor!_ And then he blushes when reading it, his heart pounding harshly against his ribs. Not that he’d mind jumping Gimli’s bones. Or the other way around would be fine too. But it’s not like they’re officially boyfriends or anything. It was just that one kiss. Very sloppy (lots of tongue). Okay, focus. Breathe. He needs to focus and breathe and not think about Gimli’s hands on his butt when they’d made out in Erebor’s airport.

Cautiously he adds, _I might – or should - be able to convince my father to let me return to Erebor before the year is up. Hopefully._

A year isn’t that long, certainly not for an Elf, and not really for a Dwarf either. But right now the prospect seems like eternity itself, as if the year before him – every waking hour without meeting Gimli again – is going to be an empty senseless void.

He feels a little dizzy and sick when he hits send. He curls up on his bed, wrapped in a thick fluffy blanket with Estel at his feet, unable to move but also unable to go to sleep for the next twelve hours. Outside, dawn slowly approaches.

He wonders if Gimli’s sitting down with his Da to have dinner right now or if he’s also curled up somewhere feeling miserable.


	13. Part 12

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: JustAnotherRanger_84@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-06-22 09:22:34

**Subject: watch our soccer game on Saturday plz?**

_Hiya Legolas!_

_Just wondering what’s up? I haven’t seen you around for ages. The Twins said you were over to them a couple of days ago – why wouldn’t you let me know?? Now I missed the chance to see both you AND Arwen!!_

_Anyway the thing is the Rangers have got a game next Saturday, we face the Red Eye and I’ve got two free tickets so why don’t you grab *someone* and come see? You need to get out more. Plus I need cheerleaders._

_I’m mailing you the tickets right now. If your dad refuses to drive you I could talk with the twins and they’ll pick you up. So no getting away that way!_

_Highfives from your friend,_

_Aragorn_

_PS. have you logged on to tumblr recently??? DS._

* * *

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: JustAnotherRanger_84@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-06-22 14:29:16

**Subject: re: watch our soccer game on Saturday plz?**

_Hi Aragorn,_

_I’m not sure and there’s no one for me to go with but thanks for the consideration. But you don’t need to bother the twins about driving me; I’m feeling a bit down and will probably just sleep._

_But thanks anyway. And I’m so, so sorry for neglecting you – next time we’ll include you, I swear!_

_Cheers,_

_Legolas_

_PS. How so? The twins were acting kind of weird when I was there, Arwen said it was something about tumblr but I haven’t seen anything…_ yet _…that might have caused it. DS._

* * *

To: JustAnotherRanger_84@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-06-22 18:01:59

**Subject: re: re: watch our soccer game on Saturday plz?**

_Hi Legolas,_

_Sorry to hear that. But if I buy you a drink after, what about that??_

_PS. you’ll figure it out one way or the other! Trust me. DS._

* * *

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: JustAnotherRanger_84@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-06-22 22:21:34

**Subject: re: re: re: watch our soccer game on Saturday plz?**

_Oh you’re just saying that so that I’ll convince Arwen to come with me…_

* * *

To: JustAnotherRanger_84@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-06-23 00:12:01

**Subject: re: re: re: re: watch our soccer game on Saturday plz?**

_Come on, do a friend a favour!_

* * *

The phone rings so suddenly that Legolas turns away from the sharp sound instinctively and then, slowly, untangles himself from the blankets and fumbles to pick up the cell and answer.

“Hello?” His voice is tired and hoarse, unelvenlike and raspy.

“Legolas! It’s me. Did I wake you?”

“Not really.”

“I didn’t think Elves even slept.”

“I _wasn’t_ sleeping.” More like moping. Not that he needs to admit that. “So. Um. Had a nice day?” He glances at his watch to check that it really _is_ day. He’s spent the last few hours locked in his room, unable to care. 11:22 a Saturday morning.

“Yes! Very fulfilling.” The Dwarf sounds rather mysterious when he says that, smug and proud and happy and Legolas curiously wants to know what he’s been up to; naturally Gimli refuses to give a straight answer. “You’ll see,” he only says, stubbornly – ugh, the stiff necks of Dwarves! “What about you, Las?”

“Nothing,” he answers miserably, tiredly dragging a hand through Estel’s fur when the cat tries to make him cuddle him and the Elf just hasn’t the heart to push him away. “Just. Resting, I suppose.” _And missing you._

“I had a sort of question.”

“A ‘sort of’ question?”

“All right, a question.”

“Yes…?”

“Would you.” There is a very long pause. Oh god, he’s going to hang up. Or faint. Or be interrupted. A house fire is going to break out. A hurricane will hit Erebor and cut the connection. And he’ll never hear what Gimli means to say. Oh Valar! Oh _Eru …!_ A knife is slowly twisting in Legolas’ heart. _Please let Gimli hurry up and finish the question already!_

“… Would you like to be my boyfriend?”

* * *

For a minute there is no reply at all, and Gimli’s heart jerks and hits the ground heavily like a rock hitting the bottom of an icy black pond; then there is a shrill sound. A cry (or scream more like) and Gimli has to distance the phone from his ear for a bit lest he go deaf.

Once the Elf has quieted down the Dwarf readjusts the cell against his ear, grinning widely. “That’s a yes, then?”

“WE’RE BOYFRIENDS, GIMLI! WE’RE --- uh, sorry Ada, I didn’t mean to disturb,” the Elf suddenly coughs a bit out of earshot and Gimli’s laugh of relief and joy and pure joy threatens to overcome him. Legolas swiftly returns though, whispering loudly as if sharing a great conspiracy: “Gimli, we’re _boyfriends_!”

* * *

Thranduil knocks on the door announcing its lunchtime three quarters of an hour later, when Legolas is busy logging onto Facebook and hunting down Gimli’s profile and changing relationship statuses. The older Elf arcs an eyebrow, looking at the manic grin on his son’s face with some confusion. “Ion nîn _,_ has something occurred?”

“Yeah, something,” Legolas answers giddily not looking up and his Ada’s sharp eyes can easily see the screen and the letters thereupon; and how the young blonde is replacing the _single_ with _in a relationship_ with some fellow named ‘Gimli Glóinsson’.

A terribly unelven name.

Thranduil freezes.

“Legolas…”

“Just a minute.”

“ _…_ ion, who is Gimli Glóinsson?”

The Sindar turns to him sharply, a little out of breath. “My – my boyfriend, Ada.”

* * *

“So,” Glóin asks across the table while they’re digging into some lovely seasoned steak with mashed potatoes, “that Legolas fellow you brought over, is he a classmate?”

“Nope. But my beta reader and boyfriend,” Gimli states proudly, and his father promptly chokes on a piece of sun-dried tomato.

* * *

“YOU HAVE A _WHAT?!”_

The youth rolls his eyes, albeit his fists are tightly clenched, his body tense like a bowstring in case of attack. “I’m _nineteen_.”

“Yes! My point exactly! You aren’t even fifty yet – you are far too young to undertake a serious relationship! And that name, Glóinsson – it is not Elven, is it?” Like a hawk zeroing in on its prey, Thranduil grabs his shoulders to make him face him. “Do not tell me it is some Man you’ve met when associating with that Aragorn or Elrond’s twin terrors!”

“Not exactly. He’s not a Man,” Legolas answers vaguely, “or an Elf. Or related to Aragorn or the twins in any way. He’s. Um. He’s a Dwarf, Ada.”

* * *

“Well, it could be worse,” his father admits after a long silence. “Legolas, wasn’t it? What’s his family name?”

“He’s the son of some Thranduil from Mirkwood.”

For a moment the older Dwarf just stares at him. Eventually, there’s a mutter in Khuzdul: “ _Of all the people in Middle Earth …_ Oh, do me a favour boy and make sure to not let your friend Thorin know about that detail. His grandfather Thrór had a rather serious disagreement with that Elf, Thranduil, sixty-eight years ago.”

Unable to drown his curiousity Gimli leans in. “Oh? What happened?”

“The Elf wanted to take over the Lonely Mountain Gems Inc.; did everything in his power to persuade them, even tried to force them into bankruptcy. Not that I know all the details. He’s got a keen longing for fine stones, apparently. Ever since then Thrór has refused to admit affairs between his business and that of that Elf, even if it could possibly benefit the Lonely Mountain.”

If his father is antagonized about it and Thrór tenfold so, then he’d better not mention it to Thorin, Gimli quickly summarizes, because his friend has got a short fuse and maybe he’ll withdraw his wishes of good luck if he finds out that Legolas is the son of his grandfather’s old nemesis. Yeah, better keep quiet about it.

“Just make sure you’re careful, son. Now would you pass me the salt, please?”

* * *

A Dwarf of Erebor.

A _Dwarf._ Of Erebor. Dating his son. His son! His only child! Who is only nineteen years old, a mere babe! So young and small and tiny and his only beloved _son_ \- and now _dating_ one of the Nogothrim!

Legolas looks at him with wide pleading eyes like a doe with a hurt hind leg: “ _Please_ don’t ground me again, Ada.”

* * *

To: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
From: JustAnotherRanger_84@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-06-24 19:56:39

**Subject: WHAAAAT!**

_I saw that fb update and…_

_LEGOLAS YOU SLY, SLY ELFLING!_

_CONGRATS!! But a DWARF?! Your dad must be out of his mind!!_

_Now you’ve GOT TO CELEBRATE. We ~~could~~ must go out after the game on Saturday. I’ll buy you a couple of rounds! Is he with you now? Bring him! I’ve got to meet with this lucky fellow who’s finally managed to catch your eye! (plus he needs a stamp of approval) How and when did you meet?!_

* * *

To: JustAnotherRanger_84@ardamail.com  
From: underthetrees@ardamail.com  
SA 2013-06-24 21:09:07

**Subject:  Re: WHAAAAT!**

_Yeah, no kidding. Ada nearly had me grounded - again. And thanks! You know, maybe I’ll turn up for that game after all even if soccer isn’t my thing. You’re offering the drinks afterwards, after all._

_Valar, I haven’t been this happy and giddy and feeling so awesome in ages! I’VE GOT A BOYFRIEND, ARAGORN!_

_But Gimli lives in Erebor, so I’m not sure if or when we could meet again IRL and I miss him already and Ada still refuses to mention his name, like it’s some kind of plague … :/ We met on LJ back in January, he’s writing this fic and I’m beta reading, and one thing kind of led to the other yeah? He’s awesome. You’d like him, I think. He’s got a really great red beard, very Dwarfish._

_Thanks for everything. Now I’ve got to see if Ada is still alive and breathing, I heard some china smashing half an hour ago_

_Hugs,_

_Legolas_

_PS. SWEET ERU. I’VE. GOT. A BOYFRIEND!!! *dies flailing* DS._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sindarin translations:_  
>  **Ada //Adar//** Dad //father//  
>  **ion nîn** my son  
>  **Nogothrim** Dwarf-kind _(rather insulting)_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Also, apologizes for the misuse of capitalized letters and exclamation marks._


	14. Part 13

It’s done. It’s finally, _finally_ done. Their fic is done. Finished. Completed. Ready. Full-square –

“You could hardly fit more adjectives into there,” his boyfriend remarks and Gimli realizes that he’s been talking out loud.

 _Boyfriend._ Mahal, he barely dares to believe it still: and now it has been three days. Three whole days of them being Two. Boyfriends. Bonded. Like true Ones.

“Gimli, you’re rambling,” Legolas remarks with a warm chuckle that heats Gimli up from beard-tip to toe.

“Uh. Yeah. But it _is_ true.”

At the moment, the Dwarf is sitting on his bed, with a small frown of concentration on his face as he opens a new tab and types in the correct address with his left hand. His right hand is pressing a phone against his ear. His tummy is doing all kinds of weird butterfly stuff and his whole body’s rattling with excitement.

“Okay, I’m going to publish it now.”

“Hang on Gimli, let me log onto AO3. This is a huge thing, I got to be there when it happens! We’re getting it uploaded! I mean _oh my god_ _Gimli_! We’re finally finished with it!”

Gimli chuckles when Legolas’ voice grows ever giddier with enthusiasm and he hears the sound of the Elf dashing about, no doubt slapping open his laptop. There’s the noise of frantic tapping onto a keyboard. “Okay, hang on … There!”

“Okay, you ready now?”

“That’s a go, Gimmies.”

“ _Gimmies_?” Gimli splutters. “Mahal, that’s nearly as bad as Wart.”

He’s already prepared all tags and the summary (and let Legolas double-check and triple-check them all beforehand of course) and it’s only a matter of copy-paste, which doesn’t take more than a few seconds. After checking it through once more and adding some finishing touches, he goes back to make sure that the title’s right and that credit’s gone where it’s due.

Nodding to himself, pleased, he clicks the button.

“Well, you keep calling me Las all the time and people get confused thinking I’m a lass so it’s only fair,” Legolas goes on in a fairly aggravated tone and Gimli quirks a grin, wishing he could see his boyfriend’s face. A phone-call is only that satisfying.

“Point taken. Well, Las, you ready?”

“I’m sitting here holding my breath. Well, figuratively. It’s utter agony you know. I’ve waited for months for this.” He’s practically whining now like an abandoned little puppy left in the rain and Gimli doesn’t want to torment him any longer. By Aulë, how he wishes they could’ve met again and cuddled up together right in this moment. They could’ve celebrated this properly with pizza and a movie marathon and real-life touches. This just isn’t fair.

(But their patience will pay off in the end, he’ll make sure.)

“Aren’t you Elves meant to have the patience to wait for centuries if necessary?”

The blonde only snorts, muttering something in Sindarin.

“OK, refresh the page now.”

His Elf makes a whooping noise. “WE DID IT! WE DI– sorry Ada,” he suddenly cuts himself off moving the phone away from his mouth for a moment, muttering something in Elfish; Gimli can easily imagine the sheepish look on his face as his father must’ve entered the room armed with a glare. It is after all half past twelve at night. There’s a rustle. “Uh, sorry ‘bout that, I just woke my father with all the noise and had to convince him I’m not planning to do anything potentially harmful or illegal or anything – he thought I was on the phone with one of the twins.”

“And _that_ never bodes well,” Gimli says knowingly. “I guess we’d better round it off here. Call me tomorrow?”

“Of course! Eight o’clock sharp.” Legolas makes some silly kissing noises causing the Dwarf to grin and blush and feel so weird and delirious again. And it’s wonderful. “Good night.”

* * *

* * *

The term is nearing its end now; just three more weeks to go. Gimli can hardly wait. He’s had a lot going on recently, thing to do, schoolwork to complete, not to mention he’s started hunting for an apartment or the like of his own. That, and he’s got his hands full in his Da’s workshop. And he has to manage to convince Professor Grey somehow to let him have some four or so days off soon, but he’ll sure it’ll work out somehow.

But for some reason he feels utterly restless without having to write. Without any fic pouring out of his hands. Without any words to send to Legolas. He wants to write again, he realizes, and he hasn’t had this gut-deep heart-wringing painful _desire_ to write ever before – not ever.

Legolas has lighted this white bright flame within him. Dreadfully poetic, for sure, but Gimli doesn’t really mind.

At the moment, he’s trying to juggle his tightening schedule and finds the phone calls with his boyfriend – _boyfriend!_ Mahal, he still can’t quite believe that it’s real, they’re _together_ now – growing ever more scarce.

Also Legolas has a lot to do, having to finish his final year – apparently his private tutors demand even longer lessons with him now, and his father is keeping careful watch like a dark-eyed dog with very sharp teeth. He still, Legolas reminded him the other day, isn’t very happy. The words ‘Dwarf’ and ‘boyfriend’ are a very risky combination in the Elven household right now.

If just Mithlond lay a little closer to Erebor …

* * *

“Have you got any more plans for the future then?”

“Apart from applying to Lórien Art, I’ve got no idea,” the Elf replies and there’s a faint meow in the background, meaning Estel is probably curled up in his lap right now as Legolas sits by the kitchen table drinking tea. “I’ve sent in my applications already but as you know it’ll be months yet until I find out whether I’ve been accepted.”

“I’m sure you’ll apply,” Gimli assures him, “I have got utter confidence in you.”

“Thanks. You, though? I mean, you said you’ve got no plans whatsoever, really.”

“We’ll see,” the redhead answers, scratching his beard in thought. “First things first. Once school’s finally over I’ll focus more on what to do next. Maybe I’ll help my Da out in his workshop – not much money, but at least I’ll have a roof over my head. And I’ll keep writing fic. It’ll keep my occupied.”

Legolas chuckles warmly, and Gimli’s toes curl pleasantly at the sound. Mahal, how he wishes it wasn’t transmitted through a tiny microphone held to his ear, but here, present and real, so that he could reach out and hold his hand. And here the Dwarf has to sigh and stop the train of thought, because he’s starting to become a lump of romantic mush again.

“Doesn’t pay well though.”

“Too true!”

There’s another noise in the background then; a door and a voice barking: “Ion, are you speaking with … with that Nogoth again?”

“My _boyfriend_ , yes, Adar.” In a stage whisper the Elf adds, for Gimli to hear though his Ada’s sharp Elven hearing of course picks it up: “I think it’s time to hang up now. There are _literal_ smoke clouds coming from his ears!”

* * *

In four days, Legolas reflects idly, Aragorn has got that soccer game and he more or less promised to go. Ugh. He doesn’t understand half the rules so how is he meant to enjoy looking at it? He’d better call Arwen and ask her to come, and put the second free ticket to good use – they’ll suffer together.

Or, well, Arwen won’t because she’ll probably stare unabashedly at Aragorn’s half-naked legs and sweaty face and keep commenting on his raggedy hair and Legolas will have to sit next to her through it all and nod appropriately. But it can’t be too bad, can it? She survived his talk about Gimli and – well – Legolas blushes just thinking about anything he might have blurted out on the phone with her. Gimli _does_ have quite an awesome beard, though.

Valar, he has to stop thinking about Gimli all the time. Not only is Thranduil moody, his tutors have started glaring at him since he’s losing focus all the time and his essays, previously of very high standard, have started being messy and sketchy and wholly unexpected. He totally failed that last test in physics.

At this rate his father will have him redo his final year and he’ll _never_ be accepted at Lórien.

* * *

“ _Please_ , Arwen. It’s the Rangers, Aragorn’s team. Plus,” he adds, “he’s buying me, and by extension _you_ , a drink later.”

“Well, fine. Now, to the important part,” she says, sounding deadly serious, “you know that blue dress with red laces I bought five days ago?” Legolas thinks but doesn’t really know which one it is she’s talking about, nor does he care overly much, but he hums and nods as is appropriate lest she starts yelling at him menacingly (or, worse yet, threatens to do unmentionable things with a honey sweet voice). “Do you think it would work with those black, white-dotted shoes?”

* * *

Not a day later, Gimli rings him shortly after lunch, sounding excited. “Legolas! I’ve got great news. I’ve bought an apartment in Lothlórien!”

“You’ve…? Oh my god, that’s great!” Lórien is a two hour drive from Mithlond; quite some way, but not so out of his reach like Erebor. And for Gimli to have gotten it so quickly is wonderful to hear. Maybe ... “Think I could come visit sometime?”

“Of _course_! You’re always welcome, silly Elf, you needn’t ask.” Too bad they’re on the phone; otherwise the Dwarf would have reached out and ruffled that perfectly pristine blonde hair now just to see the Elf pout and possibly purr like a cat. “I’ve gotten a contract with a local gardening firm too, so in four weeks’ time I won’t be a workless graduate anymore!”

Legolas makes round eyes at this new discovery. An apartment _and_ a job! “Congratulations! I didn’t think you were into gardening. Actually I thought you hated everything that had to do with plants on the whole.”

Gimli scowls. “Well not really. But it’s okay, I guess, and a job gives me money. A friend of my Da’s helped me get it. It’s fantastic they want to employ me at all given my age and level of inexperience. But if I work there for a couple of months or a year I could then apply for uni next year, after having gotten some proper thought of what I really want to study. The money isn’t too bad either.”

“I think you should write. Seriously, I mean it. You’re too good at it for the opportunity to pass up.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it!”

“Of course,” Gimli adds, gently, “I know. Just. A serious writer? Seeking to get published? _Me_? In the next century maybe.”

“You could always try. You _should_ always try.”

“ _’Do or do not; there is no try’_ ,” the redhead reminds him in his most serious impression of the aged Jedi Master, causing the Elf to cackle madly.

“Oh Valar, it’s been ages since I saw those movies! We should –“ And he pauses, cursing inwardly again that they’re three hundred miles apart. “- I mean, when we mean up again, we should see them. I’ve got the DVDs. We’d have a marathon! That, and Doctor Who. Yeah. And eat raspberry muffins.” He sighs dreamily. “But seriously, Wart. I’ll whip your ass if you don’t ever try writing something.”

“Oh, no pressure then.”

“None at all.”


	15. Part 14

His father knocks on his doorframe while the Dwarf in the middle of packing. Clothes and various items have been thrown haphazardly across the room; it’s a great big mess. A laptop is running in the corner, at the moment showing the details of his latest correspondence with Thorin. Next to the opened, half-filled bag resting on the bed lies a fist-sized carefully wrapped package.

“Son,” Glóin starts in that certain parental we’ve-got-to-have-a-serious-discussion-(and-I-think-you-know-about-what) voice and Gimli wants to dig a hole in the ground and cover it up so no one can find him again.

“We already talked about this two years ago,” the redhead states, pained, remembering his coming out which had been quite calm except for _that_ bit. “Please, Da, I don’t need to hear it again.”

“Very well, but don’t forget to pack those condoms before you go.”

_“Da!”_

* * *

Still terribly stiff about the subject, Thranduil plainly refuses to utter the words ‘boyfriend’ or ‘Dwarf’ or any variation thereof - and especially not in combination. Probably in shock and denial, and Legolas is just relieved that there is no yelling going on and he’s not been grounded and no personal possessions have been taken from him on uncertain terms.

Part of Legolas is tempted to forcibly drag the topic onto the table while they dine just to see his father squirm, but dares not to; besides right now his Ada at least isn’t glaring. But the silence is starting to grow uncomfortable and cold. Is a bit of acknowledgement too much to ask for? Just because he won’t talk about it doesn’t meant that his son has suddenly ceased to be a Dwarf’s boyfriend!

It’s a Wednesday evening during such a moment, the large table filled with various rich foods and three types of wine (his father loves to try out different sorts all the time) when Legolas receives an unexpected text from said Dwarf.

‘Are you free tomorrow afternoon?’ it asks, oddly and a spark of hope (and a little bit of disbelief) settles in his stomach.

‘Yes,’ he answers, adding questioningly, ‘What are you up to?’

The answer is annoyingly cryptic. ‘A good general never reveals his plan too early.’

“Legolas,” his father interrupts, “what have I said about cell phones at the table?”

“Sorry. Just a message I had to answer,” he says, adding, just for the spite of it because his father _has_ to face the truth someday; “From my _boyfriend_.”

Thranduil visibly stiffens. “Let me see.”

Oh Valar. He thinks they’re sexting. At the dining table. “No! It’s private.”

“I am your father, ion. Now _let. me. see.”_

It’s an order from a voice like that of a king and cannot be disobeyed lest he’d suffer a truly painful punishment. Reluctantly, he hands over the phone and the older Elf skims over the latest fifty messages from his and the Dwarf’s conversation while Legolas wants to sink down and meld with the chair, the tips of his ears burning. Sure, there’s nothing that naughty in there. Probably. Hopefully. Just silliness and stupidity and terribly embarrassing, fluffy things written late at night and good morning virtual kisses and the occasional image with an attached quote (leaving them laughing for hours) and Eru did he ever erase that drunken message from Gimli or not?!

After a moment, his father’s gaze shifts from the small screen to his son; ignoring his squirming Thranduil raises an eyebrow. “... ’I want to haul you to my obscure cave?’”

“He – um – we – it was a late night! He. Maybe was drunk?” Legolas finishes uncertainly, because Gimli never did explain that message in full. Maybe it was a prank; at the time they hadn’t met face-to-face, heard each other’s voices, nevertheless shared that first wonderful kiss. Yeah. An old prank, maybe one of Gimli’s friends urged him to do it. Or something. "Besides, that was ages ago!"

“Legolas, it says –”

“I know what it says! _Elbereth,_ Ada.” Does he want him to start fading from pure agony and humiliation? “Dear Eru.”

His father hands the phone back over with a frosty expression; trying to compose himself. “I do hope that this Dwarf has better manners than it would first appear.”

 _Eru_ , Legolas silently prays, glancing upwards, _please don’t let Ada have gotten the idea to have to hunt Gimli down and skin him alive. Ai, Elbereth…!_

* * *

Next day, at twelve past two, the doorbell rings. Legolas startles in the middle of his latest assignment (a third degree equation).

Is it one of his father’s business associates? It’s Thursday, a normal school day for most so it can’t be Aragorn, Arwen or the twins, unless they’re shirking in which case they’d not use the front door and risk getting caught. Who else could it be? The Greenleaf mansion is situated in the middle of nowhere, after all, not a house one would easily stumble on on accident. A traveller asking for directions? Maybe it’s the postman with a package.

The doorbell rings again. When no one seems to answer, Legolas slides off the chair, shooing Estel off his lap for a moment; the cat follows nibbling on his heels as the Elf makes his way through the grand kitchen and to the hall. The bell rings a third time. He peers out the peephole but can’t see anyone there, just the hint of a giant lawn and a forest beyond. A prank? But who would even bother to come here, to the middle of nowhere, for such a prank?

“Hello?” he asks opening the door, seeing no one directly in front of him so he glances down – and freezes up.

The stranger on the porch stares back at him for a moment too, before breaking into a wide grin, and Legolas blinks a couple of times to make sure he’s real.

“Oh. my. god. OH. MY. GOD! _GIMLI_!”

“Hello Le— _ompfh_!” Abruptly the Dwarf finds himself wrapped in a pair of long slim arms and trapped against an elfish chest. Not that he minds much. Legolas’ newly washed hair smells of sweet soap (strawberry-something probably. Slightly minty).

“Sorry,” the Elf mutters sheepishly once he withdraws, “but – oh my god. That text, yesterday,” he realizes, “you meant to come all along! You sneaky Dwarf! Eru, _I missed you_.”

“Yeah,” Gimli agrees heartily, smiling, and the Elf kneels to his eye-level. The Dwarf lays a hand on his neck and pulls him in greedily for a kiss, and another, and Legolas’ hands knot in his beard.

* * *

Thranduil comes down from his office on the upper floor; he might have just found them or been standing on the doorstep for five minutes, Legolas isn’t sure because he has his tongue down Gimli’s throat when suddenly his Ada clears his throat, loudly, causing them to spring apart. Which is how his Ada gets his first good look at his son’s boyfriend.

* * *

“Gimli Glóinsson, at your service.”

They do not shake hands – the Elf doesn’t seem to want to touch. Gimli bows his neck in Dwarven fashion instead, inwardly thinking it’s a bit ridiculous but keeping quiet of it. Legolas’ father is wearing black tie and perfectly polished shoes and a spotless, finely pressed suit: the exemplary businessman; nothing like his own rough-handed father, at first glance.

“Well,” Thranduil says tersely, “he does appear to have some manners.”

Legolas slowly lets out a breath he’s been holding for six minutes. No beheadings today then, thank Eru. “I’ll help prepare a guest room for him,” the younger blonde says before his father can made some snide remark or force Gimli to leave the house and seek out a hotel. But knowing his father there is no way he could convince him to let the Dwarf share a room with him – best thread the ice as cautiously as possible. “Come on, let me show you around.”

“Your house is huge,” Gimli remarks, “how much room do two people really need? But very pretty.”

“It _is_ called a mansion,” Legolas reminds him. “It’s got four floors, fifty-eight-something rooms, though there’s a section under renovation right now. There’s a guest room across the hall from mine.”

“He will use the chamber on the second floor,” Thranduil interjects immediately.

Right. Of course.

* * *

“Fifty-nine rooms and just _one_ _single_ television.”

“There’s a library,” Legolas defends. It’s large and wonderful and he’s spent countless hours in there, immersing himself in hundreds of other worlds and lives all since childhood. He loves the smell of old books – there are tomes in there from his Ada’s own youth. The oldest is from when Thranduil’s father Oropher was just a century, meaning they’re around two millennia old, the Tale of the Years of Trees. Legolas has only been allowed to open that book once because of the risk of damaging it. “And I _am_ allowed to watch films; we should have that marathon sometime. Just be glad there’s wifi.”

* * *

Estel seems to take immediate liking to the Dwarf, curling up on his lap and burying his tiny paws in Gimli’s coarse beard as soon as the redhead takes seat. An unexpected guest or not, his Ada is adamant he must finish his schoolwork for today, so Legolas makes some tea and searches the cupboard for cookies. While they wait for the kettle he settles by the kitchen table and reopens his math books.

“Seems I didn’t get here at the best of times,” Gimli remarks and Legolas makes a face.

“Maybe. But it’s wonderful to see you! Sorry about this,” the Elf says, gesturing at the homework.

“I don’t mind. To be honest, I’d planned to arrive on Saturday but there was a mix-up with the plane tickets and I managed to take some extra leave from school – Professor Grey even wished me luck! – and, well, here I am.”

Six weeks after their first face-to-face meeting, and here the Dwarf of his life is sitting in his kitchen, slurping tea and spilling crumbs everywhere, Estel purring in his lap. And Legolas’ heart swells at the sight and he instinctively leans over the table to peck his cheek.

“Is your father watching?” Gimli stage whispers.

“Not right now.” So he steals a couple of more kisses.


	16. Part 15

“… Arwen? Hi! Yeah, I – oh? Um. Okay. The twins said? Really? How did they …? … yeah. A tumblr post? Oh-kay … Yeah, it’s true. _Yes_! Oh my god, you _have_ to meet him! He’s awesome and wonderful and … _Of course_ he is! He’s my boyfriend! … Stupid,” he adds, in a quiet mutter. The Dwarf by his side smiles and Legolas (while his friend fires away both slight insults and accusations and many, many questions in his ear) pokes the red-head’s side. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to swallow the playful giggle threatening to spill, while Arwen, oblivious (or maybe not), continues talking.

Oh Valar, Gimli is here, right here, sitting beside him and munching on one of the rare cookies Galion made before leaving work yesterday (as if the dear old butler had foreseen the Dwarf was coming! Because his father hates anything too sweet and doesn’t like his son’s probably excessive consumption of them). There are two steaming cups on the table and his schoolbooks lie open and ignored. Oh, he’s _here_! For _real_!

(He might have pinched his arm once or twice just to check.)

“Shut up! …And I’m not having a panic attack! I am calm. _Calm_. Sort of. Okay – I admit – I’m hyper and oh my god he’s _here_ and … !” He has to draw a deep breath, heart racing. Gimli’s firm warm hand is splayed on his wrist and his thumb drawing calming little circles. “Yeah, my father knows. That meeting went … well. I think Ada is allergic to Dwarves. At least to Gimli, but hopefully he’ll warm up on him. Gods, he’s here, Arwen! He’s _here_! … And yes, we – wait, you think we’re already _what_?! Oh lay off! I am _not_ discussing that on the phone with you. Or _ever_.”

He senses Gimli’s curious glance, the Dwarf’s eyebrows drawing together a bit and Legolas blushes, so, so relieved that the red-head hadn’t heard Arwen’s outrageous question. “…Okay, fine. See you. Say hello to the twins and your Ada. Oh! And about Saturday, maybe you don’t want to – oh? Um. Right. I’ll, I’ll ask. Okay... See you. Bye!”

“A friend?” Gimli asks, looking a bit smug, as the Elf lowers the phone. Legolas’ ears heat up again because he’d not been able to keep his giddiness and joy from either his face or voice, and even when hearing only one half of the conversation Gimli must’ve gathered what it was all about.

“Yeah, Arwen; she’s my best friend. Like an older sister really. And that means, as annoying and dangerous as a sister too. But if you ever meet her don’t tell her I said that! She’s like fifty years old, you know; one of the Peredhil,” he clarifies. "And don't tell her I said that, either."

The Dwarf chuckles. “Also allergic to Dwarves?”

“No! No!” Legolas looks for a moment genuinely horror-struck, and Gimli takes pity on him, assuring him that it was only a joke. “Sorry, just, I know that my father is very stubborn and pig-headed and I’m sorry that he reacted to you the way he did. He sneers a lot. At everyone. So, it’s nothing personal, he’s just quite distrustful. Arwen isn’t like that. She’s a fic writer too, you know.”

“Really? What fandom?”

“Well,” he pauses, thinking, “she was in this Johnlock phase last I checked. Um, and Destiel. Don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll get her seal of approval.”

The Dwarf humms, vibrations travelling from him through his hand onto Legolas’ wrist and it causes the Elf’s belly to grow warm, his toes curling. “I think we’ll find an agreement.”

“Also about that,” Legolas adds looking at him questioningly and a bit worriedly, for some reason Gimli at first cannot quite fathom, “she wants to meet you. There’s this game, a soccer game and our friend Aragorn plays with the team, the Rangers, and he’s already offered and mailed me two free tickets. It’s tomorrow. I meant to go with Arwen even if soccer isn’t my thing but now you’re here, maybe, I mean, if want to –”

“I’d love to.”

“It’s not really up to par with you taking me to the theatre,” Legolas admits grudgingly, and he looks so cute and adorable and Gimli cannot resist the urge to lean in and touch him more, stroke his hand through that soft hair and momentarily Legolas loses track of thought. “Um. But it’s free. Afterward Aragorn is buying drinks. He’ll want to meet you too.”

“Nice to hear I’m not wholly unwanted,” the Dwarf says, chuckling. “So this Aragorn fellow – any reason for me to start feeling jealous by now?”

Legolas’ eyes widen comically. “Of course not! Silly Dwarf. We went to pre-school together, he and I, we’re old friends. Besides he’s as straight as they come and totally infuriated with Arwen. Just, I might’ve mentioned you in an email … or two … because he saw that Facebook update. He’s been texting me questions ever since. It’s like he can’t comprehend the prospect of me having a boyfriend!”

“Ah,” the redhead nods knowingly, thinking of his cousins (and Dwalin and Ori and Bofur - even Thorin has sent a couple of embarrassing inquiries since that incident at the Prancing Pony, so long ago). “I quite know the feeling.”

The Elf glances at his books tiredly. He’s not even half-finished yet, but just can’t bring himself to bother. “Hey, what about a board game? I think we’ve got a few, hidden away in the library.”

* * *

They end up playing an over two-hundred-year old Elven version of Monopoly (with an actual name Gimli can’t pronounce – something Quenyan), which probably hasn’t been touched for decades (Legolas is surprised his Ada had let it be kept lying around, but then sees his Daerada’s messy signature on the inside of the lid and smiles fondly). But isn’t as fragile as it would first appear; it is after all of Elvish make – and Elves tend to like keeping their things for as long as they’re around.

There’s not as much serious play to start with (except there truly is: when Gimli manages to purchase his second property, Legolas is already on seventeen) as there’s tea-drinking and more cookies (crumbs end up everywhere, hiding in the crevices of the couch). They end up squabbling about which music to listen to, hooking up an ipod to the sound system in the third living room. Legolas _might_ have distracted Gimli with a sudden tickling attack to be able to borrow a couple of hundred bucks from the bank. All in fairness though! And the Dwarf is _very_ ticklish. Plus, he’s pretty sure he saw his boyfriend smuggle an equal, if not greater, amount up his sleeve just eight minutes earlier, so it’s all fair and square.

When the large clock in the dining room start ringing, announcing six o’clock, Gimli has managed to acquire a whole row of places on the board, including the whole of the Westfold and Anfalas and a bit of Mordor (all save for Orodruin), while Legolas boasts with the Dimrill Dale and Ered Luin and pretty much all the Elven kingdoms that were left around at the end of the Third Age (which the board represents). All that's left is Hobbiton, which they're both stubbornly trying to reach.

That, however, is not the cause of the puppy eyes the Elf is making right now; rather, the last cookie they’ve abandoned the game to argue over.

“Oh, all right!” Gimli cries, giving in after a fifteen minute staring match. It’s not fair that the Elf has such captivating eyes – and to make such a face at that! “Ack, the stubbornness of Elves!”

“If I said I’ll make you up to it …” Legolas suggests slyly, and the Dwarf shivers, blood suddenly rushing, hotly, southward through his body.

“Oh?” he murmurs, shifting closer across the white couch (or at least it was white before, but with all the tea – well, that stain wasn’t there before, but it can be hidden with a well-placed cushion so hopefully Legolas’ father will never know). The Elf, in turn, moves toward him, now licking the last crumbs from his soft lips and Gimli can’t take his eyes off him and, Mahal, he’s using his eyes again – now to look all seductive and dangerous and a bit wild, like a cat. Gimli just wants to pull him in, clasp that thin beautiful wrist in his hand, and press his mouth against the smooth neck, _taste_ him –

They’re kissing and just can’t _stop,_ and in the background the music reaches a crescendo.

It takes a moment to part. Legolas feels breathless and a bit dizzy.

A film sounds suddenly much better and more fun. Then they can cuddle up under a thick fluffy blanket, and he can sneak his hand into Gimli’s strong one and have the Dwarf rest his head against his shoulder or chest and bury his other hand in that wonderful beard. Yeah.

Gimli certainly has no objections.

* * *

“So, is he a Dwarf in, like, every manner?” Arwen asks in a rather mysterious tone, a mischievous tilt to the words, much, much later that evening; the sky is dark and the living room where the television is has turned into a popcorny mess (which his Ada isn’t very pleased about and the cleaning staff will definitely not be happy to be greeted by next morning, but at the moment Legolas cannot bring himself to care).

They’d watched the first Star Wars movie, and then a couple of Doctor Who episodes, and nerded over all of it equally and a lot of other things and talked about There and Back Again (and longed for the next movie instalment to come in December, agreeing they should go to the midnight premiere together). There had been quite a lot of kissing involved too. And touches. And silliness, with pictures being taken and uploaded to Ardagram. Legolas had felt a bit like riding on a high and then nightfall had come, and then midnight - and his Ada had finally had enough with all their noise, and put a stop to it firmly and sent his son off to bed.

Legolas frowns albeit through the phone Arwen can’t see it. “I don’t quite follow.”

“Aw, come on! A Dwarf. You know.”

Absolutely mortified Legolas shrieks right into the phone, which probably would have deafened her for a while if she hadn’t anticipated this and already withdrawn the phone from her ear. “ARWEN!!”

“Oh come on, it’s a legit question isn’t it? You’ve done it with him, right?”

Red in the face the Wood-Elf stutters something, inwardly cursing the other Elf’s smugness. “I’m _not_ talking to you about this.”

“But we’re BFFs, Legolas - this is what BFFs talk about!”

“We’re not discussing my sex-life over the phone!” he hisses, hoping his father can’t hear him through the walls. That would be … awkward.

“Come on,” Arwen says, a whine almost, “I want to hear all the juicy details. The way you talk about him means he must be good. Knowing you, you could only have picked the best. Actually, I’ve heard that it’s the opposite of one would think, that Dwarves defy the laws of proportionality and are supposed to—”

“Arwen, _please_ , stop tormenting me, it’s not fair,” he grumbles, cutting her off before she can finish that sentence. If he starts thinking about that now, he’ll spend the rest of his life red-eared and with a strangled voice.

There’s the choice of giving in now or postponing it. If he doesn’t spill what she apparently wants to hear, she’s probably going to take a cab to the lonely Mirkwood Mansion, break down the door and drag him by the hair down the stairs just to know. Or, possibly worse, she’d confront him _with Gimli present_ this Saturday during the game. Maybe he could fake losing contact, making some static noise, and then flee out of the window…?

“Please.” At least she’s not here to physically bat her eyelashes at him like some hurt puppy. “You **must** have…”

Then she silences and gasps, and Legolas is pretty sure she’s dropped something and is leaning in now, realizing something. “Oh my god.”

Arwen’s mind is _really_ down the gutter. (Not that his own isn’t.)

“Oh my god, you’re saving it for the wedding night,” she squeals in a weirdly delighted way and Legolas’ ears adopt the same hue as the rest of his face.

“All right all right all right!” he admits, pained, his hands not quite steady when thinking about it, _remembering_ (Gimli’s mouth and Gimli’s strong warm hands and his tongue and then they rocked against each other and –)… Valar! “We haven’t done it yet, okay? Well, sort of. We’ve...sort of. It wasn’t, ummm, really the, ah, proper way …”

“‘Sort of’? Give me detailssss.”

“Uh, it was this night, and Ada was in his office not bothering us, so, Gimli and I watched a movie or two and it was great fun and he’s _really_ more nerdy in real life and has the most adorable nose and his hands are really, really nice and warm and his beard – uhm, _anyway_ , we ended up kissing on the couch, and it sort of led to more and lots of touching and I managed to get topless. And – uh, it was then Ada walked into the room.”

“Uh oh!”

“Since I’d promised that absolutely _nothing_ would happen in his absence, he was … rather angry and sent me to my room, and took Gimli to the kitchen ‘for questioning’. Valar! That was the most embarrassing moment in my life! I feel so sorry for Gimli. He wouldn’t even tell me afterwards what Ada said to him! Once we finally got to talk, Gimli said he’d take in at a hotel at Mithlond for the night. Ada still hasn’t cooled down. I think he’s planning on installing security cameras all-over the house. He won’t let me out of his sight for more than five minutes. Oh Eru!” A strangled whine breaks from his lips, his chest twisting in fear that couldn’t possibly be wholly irrational. “Ada’s probably planning his _murder_! I’ve sentenced Gimli to his death!”

“Oh, darling, don’t you worry your pretty face,” Arwen says. “I’ll come up with something. I’ll speak with my brothers. You and your beloved Dwarf got to get some.”

“ARWEN! And _don’t_ drag the twins into this!” He’d never hear the end of it!

“It’s not like they don’t know,” she chuckles and Legolas groans. She’s right. There’s no way that him dating a Dwarf would remain a secret for long. He’s dreaded logging onto Facebook knowing that his friends would have filled his wall with countless questions by now - he’s instead spent time on tumblr reblogging distracting stuff, but ever since KingUnderTheMountain2746 recced their fic _Destiny_ things have begun to grow haywire even there. “Remember that tumblr post my brothers were all weird about? It’s on my dash right now. A video.”

Legolas is thrown off the wheel yet again, mind spinning with the implications of that easy statement.

“A … video?”

“Yeah. Apparently you and Gimli’s airport make-out session is quite the success, despite the shaky picture and low camera angle.”

He lets out a highpitched shriek, completely forgetting that in the quiet house his Ada is probably able to hear him very clearly – despite having sworn he’d go to sleep before three o’clock (or at least turn off the lights and not make any noise).

“Someone _filmed_ it? And it’s on tumblr?!”

“El reblogged it,” Arwen says sweetly, “so it might have been one of his friends. Though with all the notes it’s got it’s hard to tell. Maybe some stranger thought it was hot. Easy to find; it’s tagged #elfdwarflove, obviously.”

Legolas stares up at the heaves with a pleading gaze. Well, technically at the ceiling. “Please someone let me die…” he wails.

“I’m reblogging it for you,” his best friend (alternatively his doom) goes on, chuckling oh-so-evilly. “And I’m going to tag it **properly** , unlike my brother, who’s going on about muffins … Hang on, what’s this? Aragorn! Oh my fucking god, he _can’t_ have written …”

“Someone - anyone…!”

Then there’s a knock on the door, so sharp and sudden that Legolas nearly (but just nearly) falls off the bed he’s stretched across, and Estel gives an angry whine. The voice following, on the other hand, is muffled and rather strained.

“Ion, it’s me. Open up.”

“… and he wouldn’t know how to tag for his life – hey, Legolas, are you listening?”

“Uh, sorry,” he replies while in fact he’s torn between relief that his father is interrupting and thus saving him from more awkward questions from Arwen, and between fear because this is his father and who knows what kind of interrogation he’s got planned? He could easily slip into business-mode, taking notes and staring at him with a cold stern gaze while saying that he can’t be with a Dwarf, it’s wrong and inappropriate and –

“My father’s here. I got to go.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, good luck! But don’t lose hope, dearie, you’ve got a whole team of fans backing you up! If your dad decides to lock you up in a tower we’ll be there to recue you in no time and bring you back to your white knight – I mean Dwarf -”

“Just shut up.”

* * *

His father looks pained, like he’s been putting this off far too long and just can no longer bear the weight of it, near collapse. In fact he looks a bit scared. Like he’s tried to not think of the prospect of his son ever falling in love or trying to break free. (Or fall in love with a Dwarf – especially with a Dwarf.)

Legolas has never seen him look scared.

“Ion,” he says heavily, “you and that Dwarf…”

“ _Gimli._ His name is Gimli, Ada. And he’s my _boyfriend_.” He makes sure to amplify the words, meeting his Ada’s stare head-on.

“Yes. I spoke with him earlier and he explained the situation quite plainly. And there is something I must make clear.”

Sharp fear nestles in Legolas’ throat, knives there making it hard to breathe. No. No, his father can’t … he can’t. “Ada, I …” he pleads, steeling himself so to be ready to beg for his life, to make pledges, to make amends, to ask all kinds of forgiveness and permission and, oh sweet Eru, _please_ don’t let his father say now that he’s sent Gimli away for good – _please_ -

“Therefore, as your parent and legal guardian, I must make sure you’re sure of this choice and that you’re safe. Are you using the proper protections?”

He nearly loses his balance, even though he’s sitting down. “Uh, I – umm, what?”

“For Eru’s sake, do not tell me you have been … _frolicking_ … with that – Nogoth,” here his father visibly shudders, “without taking necessary precautions!” Thranduil’s eyes threaten to turn quite red now like a demon or piece of dragon soul has been tucked away deep inside him and now is about to emerge and burn the world.

Still reeling, Legolas only manages to splutter for a bit, struggling to draw breath, and then his father proceeds to present him with a packet of condoms and a lecture in safe sex.

Oh _Valar._ It’d be good timing if a dragon could show up right now and burn a hole in the ground for him to sink down into and hide (possibly forever. Except not. But for the next month at least). Oh Eru, how can his Ada talk about this in that serious voice and expect him to look him in the eye? Oh god, his Ada just mentioned the word ‘penis’ with an _utterly straight face_. And is that a banana? Oh Eru. _Ai Elbereth!_

_Somebody save me! ANYONE!_

(Not Arwen or the twins though. They’d only be in hysterics.)

* * *

“Is something wrong?” Gimli asks next morning when the Dwarf rings the bell, after having taken a cab to the mansion from the hotel where he’s stayed this night. He’s dressed comfortably in a red sweater and plaited his hair and beard nicely, with metallic clasps holding it all together. At the question Legolas just shakes his head mutely, unable to come up with a decent reply.

At least his Ada didn’t have that lecture with Gimli present. Thank Eru for small mercies.


	17. Part 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This chapter took me forever to write. It just never agreed with me. Plus there’s soccer featured (because of Aragorn) and I know next to nothing about that and just couldn’t actually incorporate Legolas and Gimli into all of it at first. And then I had to rewrite some parts because it began to lean too much toward crack… That took a while to overcome._   
>  _So I’m not sure how I feel about this chapter, really, it’s a little forced and awkward but perhaps you will see it differently... ? I just can’t sit on this anymore – I might have to go back and revise it later, but I just some opinions on it; a new set of eyes, so to speak. So after much struggle, here it is. Umm, slight warning for (mentions of) alcohol consumption._   
>  _(Also I tried to contribute to the awesome Gigolas week with this entry: **[In the lanternlight (we swear our oaths)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1209583)** , a Legolas/Gimli oneshot in a more canon setting.)_

“Why did I agree to this again?” Legolas asks aloud when they are pulling their jackets on in the hallway, waiting for the twins to arrive.

“Because if you wouldn’t come your friends threatened to cut off your hair. That is what you claimed yesterday, at least. And you have some very gorgeous hair and I wouldn’t appreciate it if you lost it,” Gimli says (he really wants to try braiding those lovely golden tresses in Dwarven fashion sometime!), while tying the long laces to his left boot. They’re very sturdy, those boots, some military sort or possibly just very Dwarven in design and suit Gimli really well and Legolas’ eyes are drawn to his strong flexing fingers as he finishes the laces on the left and start on the right ones.

“Uh, right,” the blonde mutters, trying to focus on the right train of thought. “But we could have gone to the cinema or something! Valar, I’m sorry you have to put up with this, Gimli. And my whingeing manners. I apologize beforehand for all the staring and incessant questioning you’re going to have to endure. Especially from the twins. They’re, uhm.”

He pauses suddenly, wondering if Gimli knows about the tumblr video and just not said anything for the sake of sanity; or if he honestly _doesn’t know_ , in which case he might deserve to live oblivious for a few moments longer.

“They’re very curious,” Legolas finishes, quite diplomatically.

(‘Curious’ is, in this case, not strong enough a strong word.)

* * *

The twins arrive in a white Mercedes, announcing their coming with a lot of loud horn honking (Thranduil shouts from his study for them to _keep it down! I am WORKING!,_  not offering to come down and say goodbye – he probably wants to avoid any contact Elrond’s sons to the highest degree). Arwen isn’t with them, but has gone with Elrond and their father’s friend (or _friend_ ; because no one is making it quite clear, least of all themselves) Lindir early to the stadium, which is granted to be quite packed. The Rangers is very popular and today they’re meeting their arch-nemesis, the Red Eye. Not that Legolas cares for all the details. It’s _soccer_ , by Elbereth, and yet Aragorn is treating it like a battle for life and death!

“Hullo,” one of the twins greets, waving a hand as the Elf and Dwarf make their way down the porch. His gaze strays to their entwined hands. “You must be Gimli.”

“Indeed I must be. Pleasure to meet you.” He offers a hand, which the dark haired Elf takes with an uncanny amount of enthusiasm. “And you are…?”

“Elrohir.”

“Nope, that’s me,” says the other, stepping out of the car to greet the redhead. To his credit Gimli doesn’t bat an eye at their likeness (or silliness) even if the Elves today have donned exactly identical clothes, right down to the facial paintings. Probably just to make people gawk. “Elrohir, at your service. And _that’s_ Elladan.”

Legolas rolls his eyes. _Every_ _time_ … “Could we just get in the car?”

“Ohh, look who’s a grumpykins,” Elladan says brightly. “Did we interrupt your cuddles and smexy times?”

The blonde punches his arm. “Shut up!”

“Nothing to be ashamed of, dear Legolas,” Elrohir says as they’re taking seat, the dark haired Elf clambering to sit beside his brother, who’s taking the wheel, letting Legolas and Gimli have the back seat. “He’s rather the hunk, you know, rather tall (for a Dwarf) - and we’ve always suspected you swung that way. I mean I remember that time when we fourteen and found you with that magazine…”

The blonde glowers at him. “I was thirteen! And it was innocent enough!”

“Yup. Well. Full of Dwarrow hunks,” Elladan says, winking at Gimli, while the blonde’s cheeks are turning a brilliant hue of red. “He’s always had an eye for redheads.”

His twin chuckles. “Just remember, this is Ada’s car!”

“ _Valar_ ,” Legolas whispers, ears burning. Will they never cease talking like that? And in front of Gimli…! (Of course they won’t. But it doesn’t hurt to hope.)

Gimli, however, just laughs it off. “You two have sharp tongues even for Elves, I admit, but after all the snark I’ve been granted the past few months I’ve grown quite resilient. Hardly anything could faze me anymore, Master Elladan.”

The twins look a bit surprised when the Dwarf apparently can tell them apart already. Not many can do that. If they put their mind to it they can even fool Aragorn.

“I like this one!” Elladan says with a chuckle (an eerie echo of the Dwarf Dwalin in Erebor, that time they ran into him in the park), and his brother joins him; “You’d better keep him, Legolas. If nothing else it’ll be fun to see how your father will react henceforth. Ada thinks it’s _hilarious_ how pigheaded he is. And when Ada thinks something’s amusing, well – it’s not a secret then, is it.”

“Yeah,” Elrohir adds, “he knows. _Everyone_ knows, really. Even Erestor, and he’s always burying his head in those books of his. You’re growing quite famous, Legsie!”

Legolas’ ears burn even more. “Don’t. _Ever_. Call. Me. That!”

He’d tried to make them quit since second grade. But all Elves are stubborn. (Some more than others.)

“Legsie and Gimli. Gimli and Legsie. Gimlegsie. Should make it a tumblr tag - #gimlegsie, Fits quite well,” Elladan agrees, totally ignoring the blonde’s darkening eyes, as they steer off the driveway and onto the wide road edged with tall pine trees. Gimli, to his credit, while blushing also, roars with laughter.

“Then we’d better make another tag,” the Dwarf says.

“Oh?” one of the twins asks, raising an eyebrow at him through the mirror.

“Aye, #a plague on the stiff necks of elves.”

Elladan nearly loses the grip of the steering wheel, and swings his head around briefly to stare at him.

Then he grins broadly. “Ha! I knew there was a reason I’d like this one!”

Despite the awkward knots tied in his belly, Legolas has to smile at that, and can’t help but grab Gimli’s hand and squeeze it fondly. Elrohir sees it and smirks broadly, and the blonde sticks out his tongue at him.

The redhead has a feeling these two would get along with Fíli and Kíli impeccably. (The result of their meeting would of course also be total and utter chaos. So – better delay such a meeting as long as possible. Possibly until the end of time and the remaking of the world. Yeah. Better that.)

* * *

As predicted the stadium is crowded by the time they get there; it's a mix of Men and Elves and quite a few Dwarves as well, alongside the occasional Hobbit. This is a sport loved by many. “Hmpfh,” Gimli mutters quietly as they make way through the mass of people, following the twins toward where Arwen is waiting, “maybe you’re right, Las. We’d have gone to the movies.”

Legolas looks apologetic and promises to make up for any boring hours ahead and Gimli has to smile, and clasps his hand around his Elf’s. It feels good, to walk around with him by his side, despite the odd looks the couple gets. To show everyone that this, this is his One and he’s perfect and nobody else’s.

“Too late for that now,” the Elf says, though he agrees that the cinema would be better. “Oh, look! There she is - Arwen! And that’s her father, Elrond, and Lindir - a friend of theirs. Hello!” He shakes a hand at the family.

Elrond stands very tall, his hair dark and well-kept and his clothes very fine even if they are nowhere as stilted as those of his father. Legolas couldn’t for his life imagine his Ada in this kind of setting, blending in with such a messy loud crowd and eating hotdogs. Lindir too is dressed down, though his hair also is very well-combed and set in a neat long braid.

Arwen is wearing those impractical heels she loves and a short blue skirt (the combination is making a few people turn their heads to stare at her long fine legs, but Legolas is sure it’s all planned for Aragorn’s eyes. Valar, those two really got to get a move on! After how she’s bothered _him_ , inquired so much about Gimli, it’d only be fair. Plus, she could maybe convince the Man to wash his hair more often). She kisses him on the cheek in greeting, and he inclines his head toward Elrond not needing to shake his hand – Elrond is nowhere as formal as his Ada - and the older Elf smiles.

“And this is Gimli son of Glóin, my boyfriend,” Legolas introduces with no small amount of pride.

“Hello.”

“Wonderful meeting you. I have heard _lots_ about you,” Arwen says, winking so swiftly only an Elf would see, and Legolas squirms on the inside. Oh no, now she’ll be filling Gimli in on all the details of every phone conversation she and her BFF have ever had, whisper every little juicy secret, convince him to do likewise, and possibly demand them to kiss for her to photo and upload to Ardagram. All at once.

“Likewise. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” Gimli answers, taking her hand courteously and he generally seems more pleasant toward her than the twins, who are hanging on the Dwarf’s shoulders like puppies. Legolas has to rather roughly push them away.

“Begone and bother someone else!”

“But Legolas!” they exclaim in choir. “We want to know everything about your Dwarf friend! Arwen mentioned –”

Oh Valar, what did she mention?! What’s she even _got_ to mention?

Everything. He tells her _everything._ There is _far too much_ she’s got the chance to mention to her brothers and he’s not going to let them torment his boyfriend with questions first thing. Or maybe ever, knowing what kind of questions that will be asked.  All of these thoughts and worries flashes through his mind in a brief second and he immediately decides to put a foot down, before the sentence is even finished.

“Maybe some other day.”

“Legsieee!”

“Shut up. The game’s starting soon anyway.”

“Very well,” Elladan says, resigned, “but we’re going to talk later!”

* * *

He doesn’t focus a lot on the game, to be honest, because Gimli’s hand on his thigh is quite distracting. He does cheer when everyone else does, though, because he notices that everyone else get louder whenever a goal is scored. In the end, the Ranges win, thanks to the steadfastness of their keeper Glorfindel ‘the Balrog-slayer’ (there was this game where the Rangers faced some team nicknamed the Balrogs of Gundabad three years ago that apparently was a big deal and he helped out but Legolas never got the details since, as said, soccer isn’t his thing) and, anyway, there’s a lot of cheer (and curses from the other side of the pitch).

Gimli’s hand doesn’t leave its now very, very hot spot until they stand and start moving to greet the victorious players – or, well, one of them at least. Legolas wrinkles his nose as he can smell them before they come into view.

“Legolas!” a voice cries and Aragorn appears, a towel thrown across his shoulders.

“Ugh, get off,” the Elf mock-groans as his friend slings a strong arm around him. “You _stink_.”

The Man is beaming with joy and pride, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. “Did you see that? Did you _see_?! We kicked their asses!”

“Yes, you were very good.”

A slight pout causes the Man to frown, and he pokes the Elf’s side harshly. “Come on, where’s the enthusiasm in that statement?! It’s such a pity you cannot fully appreciate the finest sport in Middle Earth!”

“It’s a pity you haven’t showered yet. Come on, I know it’s going to be a bit before you’re ready to leave, so I want to introduce you to Gimli.”

Aragorn smirks at him. “Finally! I’ve been really curious about this Dwarf. The twins said something about a redheaded hunk - I _knew_ that would happen sooner or later. It’s no surprise to anyone that you’re Dwarfsexual.”

“Shut up!”

Together they make their way through the mass of people (the majority of which are tall Men, talking loudly and shouting and cheering as comrades are greeted and the winning team celebrated before they dissolve to hit the showers – a handful of the opposing team’s fans are standing in the side-lines, glowering) to where Elrond is standing with the rest of the odd friends and family. Immediately when they near, Arwen pulls Aragorn in for a hug and congratulates him, despite the smell. The twins pat the Man’s back. Gimli seems to have been discussing something with Elrond – they get along very well, thankfully (then again almost everyone gets along with Elrond).

“Aragorn, at your service,” the Man says and shakes the Dwarf’s hand firmly.

“Gimli at yours.”

“So what’d you think about the game?”

“Er, it’s not really my forte,” the Dwarf says and Aragorn turns to Legolas with a slight pout.

“Aw, man! I’d hope you’d get this gruff sort of boyfriend I could hang out with and discuss proper stuff with as we hang at the pub! Not that fiction sort of thing you’re on about.”

“Ai! Aragorn,” Legolas exclaims, rolling his eyes vividly, “I met Gimli online _because of fanfic_. Do you really think we’d ever have met if either us had been – umm, remotely like you?”

“Well, you’ve got a point,” Aragorn admits. “But, we’re still going to be buddies, you and I, Gimli. There is _so_ much about Legolas you got to hear that I bet he hasn’t told you – I've known him since pre-school after all!”

The Man smirks triumphantly and Gimli looks amused (and quite inclined to accept the offer of friendship) and Legolas buries his face in his hands. This was so not a good idea. They should’ve gone to the movies, in private. Mostly in private. “Oh _Valar_.”

* * *

Legolas has a slight suspicion Aragorn is trying to get him drunk.

Him _and_ Gimli, that is. The Man is acting weirdly intrigued, like he couldn’t have imagined his friend having a romantic interest and now suddenly he needs to know all the details. Honestly, he’s just as bad as Arwen! Must’ve been her influence.

 _She’s_ also trying to get them drunk. Possibly so that they’ll lose their qualms about making out in public, just to piss off Thranduil – possibly, yeah. Legolas has to roll his eyes at the idea. If he were to come home with love bites all over his neck, his Ada would be screaming bloody murder. (When he’d caught him pecking Gimli in the kitchen just this morning had been bad enough.)

At the moment, the twins, Halbarad and a few other teammates are hoisting Glorfindel in the air, loudly singing praise over the unoriginal music blasting from the speakers. Gimli seems to get along with them all really well. Well, the majority of the guys don’t really care about the odd Elf-Dwarf couple that Aragorn’s dragged along with him.

Maybe, Legolas considers, he could get Aragorn and Arwen drunk. Then they’d leave him and Gimli alone, and they could quietly slip outside and take a cab back to the house or some quiet spot to make out (not in public!).

It shouldn’t be too difficult, given that Arwen is already distracting Aragorn by merely being in his presence. Yeah.

“Another, please!”

“'Las,” Gimli says – one hand clasped around his waist possessively, their sides pressed against one another – “it’s not even past six yet.”

“Who said it’s for me?”

A knowing glint suddenly appears in his boyfriend’s dark eyes, and his lips twitch with humour. “Oh, is that right?”

“I was hoping for some – quiet,” Legolas says, glancing to his left, where now the team’s started gathering for a group picture to be taken by Erestor. “Aragorn and the twins just won’t cease asking all these personal questions!”

Gimli hums in agreement. “Yes. Though, is it true, what they said, that you tried growing a beard?”

“Oh Valar,” the blonde groans, burying his face in his hands. “I was _thirteen_! It was all that, that magazine’s fault! Won't they ever let the matter go?”

“If it makes you feel any better, there was this time I was clean-shaven and tried to look more of a Man than Dwarf. Height didn’t quite do the trick, though.”

“Why’d you do that!? It’s a great beard!”

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Elrohir tunes in just then, smirking; “so that’s the secret kink then? Given how few Dwarrows there are around here, no wonder you had to turn elsewhere. No Man could compete with that kind of – mass.”

Quite forcefully the blonde hits his shoulder. “Shove off, you git!”

“It’s fine by me,” Gimli cuts in, smirking at the dark-haired Elf and hooking his right thumb into the belt of Legolas’ jeans. “More than fine, really. Less competition.”

“Oh Valar,” Legolas moans, again, pained, “everybody’s torturing me. What day is this, ‘Let’s Pine Legolas Because It’s Fun’ day?” He must not hit anyone to make them shut up, he quietly tells himself. Well, maybe. It would be okay to hit Elladan, a little. He could claim it to be self-defence. Then he and Gimli could make their quick escape.

“Well, you are the youngest of all of us and your boyfriend is a Dwarf,” the dark-haired twin counters and if it’s physically possibly his smirk widens even further. “It’s only to be expected.”

* * *

For the second night Thranduil admits that it is okay for Gimli to sleep over, and he can check out from the hotel. Legolas makes a whooping dance at that - maybe they’re not allowed to sleep in the same room yet, but at least now Gimli doesn’t have to leave the house.

Dinner is being prepared by Galion – who has taken the new Dwarven guest to the household in stride (possibly too terrified of Thranduil to ask whatever the redhead is doing here) – and he’s just finished helping Gimli settle in the guest bedroom (on the second floor; the one farthest from his own room – as per his Ada’s strict orders) when Legolas logs onto tumblr for the first time in hours and sees that his dash has been totally bombarded.

There’s a video.

Of them making out.

With a seriously _sick_ amount of notes.

“Valar! Gimli, Gimli, _have you **seen**?!_ ”

His boyfriend tugs him down to sit on his lap on the edge of the bed, and peers at the phone in Legolas’ hands. And promptly blushes. “Err, yeah, I’ve seen. That’s all Fíli and Kíli’s fault.”

“They filmed it?!” Eyes wide and glued to the screen, the Elf scrolls down. “… _Eru_. It’s been reblogged by so many. And Aragorn. And Arwen – and that’s El’s URL! Oh Eru, they _knew_. They knew _all this time.”_

The twins behaving weirdly – and Aragorn’s PS in that email – Arwen trying to drop strange hints …

Oh Eru.

The latest reblogger appears to be a Dwarf, because the tags are all in Khuzdul and Legolas demands that his boyfriend translate them for him, because it doesn’t look like it’s merely tagged #elf #dwarf #kiss but something much more elaborate. Reading it through, Gimli considers censoring it.

Legolas stares at his boyfriend expectantly. “So? _So_? What’s it say?”

“Basically they’re wondering when the next video is going to come out.”

“The next – _ai Elbereth!_ ”

“Don’t worry,” Gimli assures him, “I’m not going to let anyone film us. Doing _anything_.”

Just that moment, his Ada decides to appear in the doorway, suit donned and shoes polished – he might be heading off to his office – and the older Elf frowns a little at seeing his son’s position with the Dwarf. Also, his son is making some very strange noises unrelated to the hand on his thigh, as if he were choking on something.

“Whatever is the matter? And do remove yourself from his lap, ion,” Thranduil adds in a his distinct _I am still not approving of this and you are far too young and I haven’t had enough wine yet_ -tone.

Legolas chokes, cheeks flaming. Gimli finds it quite endearing.

His boyfriend’s father is still staring at them, brows furrowed. Ah, right. Reluctantly, he lowers his hand from where it’s been resting comfortably on Legolas’ thigh, and very slowly the Elf stands up.

“Err, nothing,” Legolas says quickly because his Ada seriously must never, ever know there is a video online of him and his boyfriend making out and apparently they’ve got fans. “Just saw something – funny.”

His Ada, thankfully, asks no more, albeit he doesn’t let them go form his scrutinizing gaze. “I need to go to my office,” he says instead, “a matter came up that cannot be postponed. I shall leave Galion to look after you. Understand?”

“Yes, yes, of course, Ada.”

Gimli clears his throat. There is no mistaking the way the older Elf had said ‘look after you’, and, well, it’s a bit embarrassing really.

“Yes, of course, Mr Thranduil. Please do not worry for us,” he adds, and Legolas bites the inside of his cheek when a sudden giggle threatens to escape. His Ada makes a weird sort of expression, as if uncertain how to take it when addressed thusly by the Dwarf. In the end, he nods and says goodbye and soundlessly leaves the room, and they aren’t sure he’s out of the house until they hear the slam of a car door and the whining of an engine. They practically hold their breath until that moment.

Then, Gimli tugs the Elf back on his lap.  “This Galion fellow, he likes being in the wine cellar, aye?”

“Yeah,” Legolas confirms, nodding, and a small smile hints at his lips. “He keeps sorting the bottles according to Ada’s wishes, and probably nicks some whenever Ada’s gone.”

“Hmm. Well, what are the chances then he won’t be upstairs for quite a while then?”

No more words are needed for the Elf to practically dive onto him with a kiss (with a lot of tongue) (just as they prefer).


	18. Part 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _OH. OH. LOOK. An update. I AM ALIVE._   
>  _I've got no excuses for not updating in so, so, so long (except tumblr). I'm sorry. Please accept this offer of peace._

“LEGOLAS THRANDUILLION! WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS!?”

“I –”

His father, who _never_ swears, is breathing heavily, his voice sharp. He gives his son little time to explain. “You’re – you were in bed with the Dwarf! Damn it, Legolas, I _very clearly told you_ –”

“I’m not a kid! Plus we weren’t wholly naked (yet) –”

“DO NOT INTERRUPT ME!” His Ada is quite pale. Well, paler than the norm of Elves. “Oh fucking Eru. Where is that bottle of Dorwonion I opened last night … ?! Galion! Fetch me a glass. Two glasses. No, the bottle. Fetch me the bottle.”

“Ada,” Legolas starts, slightly worried but also annoyed, “there is no need to fret. I told you, we were just _kissing_. On the bed. Not _in_ the bed. Not naked. There were no di-”

“DO NOT SPEAK THAT WAY! Oh, ye Valar …” Thranduil makes a pained parental noise. “My little Leaf … you – the Dwarf … I can’t - I _can’t_ …”

“Can’t handle the thought of me in a serious, amorous, physical relationship with a Dwarf _that I love,_ huh? So _what_ if he’s a Dwarf? That shouldn’t matter at all! Or that he’s a guy. We’re _careful_ , Ada, honest.”

“He’s, he’s -” The older Elf looks quite lost as he searches for words and then Galion reappears, holding a large near-full bottle of red wine in one hand and a pristine crystal glass in the other. He fills it and places it in Thranduil’s hands, leaving the bottle within easy reach on the nearest flat surface, before making a quick escape, glancing between father and son and looking rather unimpressed and perhaps terrified. Thranduil takes a deep sip and this seems to calm him down some, enabling him to lower his voice and speak in longer sentences.

Maybe, Legolas reflects, he shouldn’t have put such an emphasis on ‘physical’.

“Don’t you dare say ‘he’s a redhead’.”

Thranduil takes a deep breath. “You are both … both very young. Terribly young. Awfully young. So very, very young. And you have not known each other for very long – far too short time, especially for an Elf! A few months isn’t enough to … Legolas, ion, what were you _thinking_? You are _children_! He’s a Dwarf of Erebor. Can you not see, ion, that it’s all very - rushed?”

Legolas rolls his eyes. “If it went that far, we _were_ going to use protection, Ada, I promise. We’re not stupid.”

 _Not_ the right words to say.

The glass nearly breaks in Thranduil’s white-knuckled grasp. “So you were planning on having – having _intercourse_ with him?!”

* * *

Which is how Legolas ends up locked inside his room, why Gimli is ordered to stay on the first floor in the farthest away guestroom with only a laptop for company (at least he wasn’t sent back to the hotel) (Legolas feels so ashamed and bad for him and embarrassed and Eru he hopes that Gimli won’t start slowly hating him and his damningly stubborn father), and how come his father spends the following three hours in wine cellar.

Galion, bless the old chap, is too well-mannered to comment or object. Instead he’s already preparing soothing tea for the headaches that are promised to come, and before the door is locked he offers Legolas a tray full of cucumber sandwiches and lemonade. In turn Legolas makes him swear to make sure his Ada won’t do anything … stupid.

(Really, he deserves a pay rise. Legolas will tell his Ada that as soon as he comes around. Galion is like the friend of the hero in the great books, wherein they get far too little attention by the author but gain whole sub-fandoms on tumblr, where people sing praises and wear badges in their honour.)

* * *

His first call goes to Arwen. He desperately needs some advice. Possibly also an escape plan. She’s thankfully quick to catch on.

“So, how’d he take it?”

“Not. Not very well. There was a lot of yelling. He emptied a bottle of wine to calm himself. It soothed him none when I said we would be safe and all. Bad choice of words, I think. Also I’m afraid we’ve scared Galion off forever and now Gimli’s stuck downstairs without me and I think Ada’s scared him into silence. And I’m not allowed to call or touch him or anything for like, at least forty-eight hours but possibly forever because Ada might send him off and lock me in a tower or something. Permanently. Did I mention he emptied a bottle of wine? Because last time he did that was that time two years ago when the twins and Aragorn came over and – uh, _anyway_. It was _bad_. He nearly started crying at one point. Crying – my Ada! Can you even imagine that? Oh Eru, what if he never lets me see Gimli again?! What do I _do_? Arwen, you’ve got to help me! How do I convince him that we didn’t – you know, and that we’re safe and Gimli isn’t a weirdo? I bet if he was an Elf, Ada wouldn’t freak out like that.”

There’s an amused chuckle from the other side, and then just silence for a while which is worrying and nagging and annoying. It’s so typically _Arwen_ when he’s in a tight spot – she loves to just stand there smirking at him and watch him writher in pain for eighteen minutes before stepping in to save his backside.

In return, Legolas rolls his eyes. She can probably hear that. “What? _What_?”

“Sweetie,” she says gently, like she’s talking to a kitten; “it doesn’t matter if you promise on all things holy to be super extra careful and always wear seatbelts and never get drunk. All parents would rather you remain celibate. Forever. Or have kids later without sex ever being involved – you know; magic faeries, blood sacrifice, odd ghost noises coming from the closet, that sort of thing. See, sweetie, your Ada’s just scared.”

Legolas makes a noise somewhere between surprised and sceptical. “Scared? He’s _scared_?” Sure, his Ada can be a lot of things but … scared? _Really_?

“Terrified, I bet. You’re his little leaf, yeah? His chubby little darling angel-face –”

 _“Arwen!”_ He wishes she was within reach so he could hit her.

“Right. Sorry. So, he loves you. Really, he does. He’s not the most socially apt person, I know, but really, he cares. So when you start making out with Dwarves like that –”

“Just one!”

“Plural, singular – what does it matter? Anyway, he comes upon you like that, of course he freaks out. I doubt he’d react any better if it was an Elf or some scruffy Man. Even a girl. Everything is just as bad in his mind. Just, give him some time. He’ll come around, calm down. If not, you should talk to Galion and make him hide the key to the cellar so all alcohol is off-limits, and then you should sit down and talk calmly and show him that you aren’t an irresponsible idiot, and your Ada might be five centuries old but wasn’t he young and stupid and in love once?”

“And _then_?”

(And how much time is enough? An hours? A day? A year? Or – he fears – a century? Yeah, Ada would probably prefer a century. Or two. Or three… Oh Valar. He’s _never_ going to allow them _anything_!)

“Then do whatever that makes you happy. Then he’ll _see_ that you’re happy.”

Well. Okay. If she says so. He’s pretty sure there’ll be screaming involved. Ugh. “Thanks, Arwen.”

“No probs. So, want to go on a double date with me and Aragorn tonight?”

“Arwen,” he says slowly, mimicking the tone she used at the start of the conversation, as if she was the confused kitten this time; “did you miss that part were I clearly stated that I am locked in my room and Galion has run off with the key? I am pretty sure I told you that at least a couple of times. Meaning, locked door equals no getting out for _anything_.”

“Well then.” There’s the crackle of knuckles and then Arwen is calling for her brothers. Oh, great. “Your bedroom’s on the second floor, yes?”

… Oh.

Oh. Right.

What else should he have expected? A lot of the time she’s like an evil Holmes (or possibly Watson) in disguise.

He sighs. “If Ada catches me doing this he’ll chop our heads off. Mine. Then yours. The twins’ too. Not necessarily in that order. And then Gimli’s. Oh please, if he catches us and I never manage to get to him in time, _please_ tell Gimli to run _real_ fucking _fast_.”

* * *

His second call goes to Gimli. Faintly, he can hear the sharp ringtone echoing through the too many floors and walls between them. When he picks up, the Dwarf sounds worried, and heat spreads through Legolas’ chest when he first thing Gimli says is: “Las, are you OK?”

“Yes, yes,” the Elf quickly assures him. “I’m fine. Don’t worry. Are _you_ OK? Eru, I’m so sorry about that outburst and sending you to the guestroom like some naughty kid. Valar, I’m sorry, oh it’s so embarrassing! Ada didn’t mean to…I’m sure…he’s just – sensitive and you know fathers, right? He just –”

“Hey, hey, it’s OK,” Gimli says, not admitting aloud that he finds the Elf’s rambling both terribly adorable and a little annoying (also disquieting – honestly, it’s not his fault _his_ dad is some stuck-up traditional old ass). “It’s fine. I’m just bored and I came here to hang out with you, not this laptop.”

Again, the Elf says, “I’m sorry - Ada was just…a bit upset. He’ll come around.” Then he takes a breath, trying to remember why he called in the first place. “Look, at some point soon Arwen and the twins are going to visit, maybe in half an hour. They needed to, um, plan something first. Can you serve them some cookies and milk or something, please? You can find it all in the kitchen. If you’re all behaving nice, Galion won’t kick you out – tell him they’re here, um, with books I need for one of my assignments. Biology homework. On the evolution of hobgoblins or something. Ada probably won’t notice but when Galion frowns, just, _insist_ \- biology.”

“Right. No problem.” At least the Dwarf hasn’t been locked in – Ada’s too polite for _that_. “Anything I should pass on?”

“ _Well_ … If Ada doesn’t have them then Galion has the key to my rooms. There’s a bunch attached his belt, left side. If, you know. That helps any.”

* * *

Oh Valar. They’ve stolen a ladder. Or liberated. _Liberated_ a ladder from Ulmo knows where. (They might have a shed somewhere in the garden Legolas hasn’t noticed before.)

And now they’re climbing up his window. Via the liberated ladder. First Elladan and then Arwen; Elrohir, it turns out, is standing guard alongside Gimli who isn’t fond of heights and gladly refused to climb the two stories on the not-so-stable construction. For Elves, however, heights are no problem at all.

He doesn’t notice until there’s a loud clattering knocking on the 18th century glass of the window, and the rattling noise nearly makes him fall of the bed. Instinctively he tries to grab for his bow and quiver hanging on the wall. Then, he sees one of the twins pressed up against the glass, head silhouetted by the stars. The sight is not very pretty (the Elf is making silly faces).

Legolas stares at him as he straightens and then Arwen appears and drops over the windowsill like a beautiful cat.

The blonde resists the urge to face-palm. “You _can’t_ be serious.”

“Very _Beren and Lúthien_ , yeah?” Elladan remarks, more or less tumbling inside with little grace to be spared. He nearly knocks over an ancient vase with his left foot as he sprawls to the floor with a thud and a pained groan. (Oh, don’t let Galion have heard that.)

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” Arwen puts in. “That’s _Romeo and Juliet_. You’re thinking about the balcony scene. No ladders where involved in either play.”

The dark haired twin smirks, pulling himself up. “ _Romeo and Juliet_ , that Mannish theatre thing? That one where everyone dies? Anyway, I more meant Legsie’s blond as – wait. No. Lúthien wasn’t blonde. Aw, shit.”

Oh Eru. They’re sneaking him out of his bedroom via a liberated ladder and his Ada is drunk in the cellar and why did he agree to this again? Arwen is such an evil best friend. And he can’t stop her, and keeps being dragged into trouble that is absolutely not his fault.

No wonder Aragorn sometimes calls him a ‘crazy little shit’.

Arwen rolls her eyes. “Oh, just shut up, brother.”

From below, someone’s calling: “Hey, what’s taking so long? We don’t want to be discovered!”

“Uh, nothing, we’ll be right there,” Elladan calls back _far_ too loudly; surely his Ada must have heard that. If not his voice then the scramble of the ladder against the wall. Estel, stirring on the large bed, lets out a meow, jumping up to stroke his furry body against Arwen’s legs. She’s for once not wearing those heels. Right now she’s more like a warrior princess in sweatpants and a black jumper.

“Come on!”

“Are you meaning we should _run away_?” Legolas asks hesitantly. “You were serious about the double date thing and all? In the middle of the fucking night? Escaping via a stolen ladder?”

“Well, either that or you sit to rot here. Plus we couldn’t find a good way to steal the keys from Galion without being discovered – so, ladders. What’s your grudge against ladders? And it’s not _stolen_.” She gestures at the open window. “Look, we’ll go to our place and I’ll send my Ada over to talk with yours. Meanwhile, you and Gimli, and Aragorn and I, are going to have a meeting with cakes and tea. It’ll be perfectly fine.”

“Yeah, we don’t want any murders,” Elladan says with a chuckle, then frowns at the glares he receives. “ _What_? Oh – come on! He wouldn’t. Would he?”

“No.” Legolas bites his lower lip. “I _think_.”

“You can even bring Estel. I know Lindir hates furry things that leave hairs everywhere, but no he’ll just have to deal. Now, come on.” Arwen tugs on his sleeve, grabbing a rucksack with the other. Apparently during this discussion she’s managed to grab some clothes and stuffed it there, along with a pair of headphones and … is that a copy of _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_? Never mind. Knowing it to be hopeless to resist (and it’s not like he _wants_ to remain locked up until dawn or possibly the next full moon), Legolas lets them drag him along.

“Hey! Hurry up!” That’s Gimli. Oh thank Eru for his sane comforting voice. At least there’ll be someone there he can trust. And make out with. “Bloody Elves! What’s taking you?”

 _This is so not a good idea_ , Legolas thinks as he swings his feet over the edge, Estel settled in a backpack slung over his shoulder. _I hope Elrond’s ready to stop murders. What if it ends like in the play?_

Half-way to the ground Elladan lets out a sudden bright exclamation. “Oh, I remember! That was _Rapunzel_ I was thinking about!”

At which Arwen is quick to retort: “Ten points to Ravenclaw.”


	19. Part 18

As it turns out, Elrond had somehow been expecting this to occur. Perhaps he had overheard his children planning it or it was merely foresight. But whatever the case, when they arrive (the twins chattering loudly, Arwen behind the wheel, Gimli and Legolas squeezed in the backseat next to Elrohir who just won’t stop asking stupid awkward questions; Estel has by then settled in the blonde’s lap) there’s coffee already waiting and the lights are on.

The Peredhil house isn’t too large – not like the hovering mansion of Thranduil’s – but not too small either, just quaint and homely and warm. The walls are littered with photographs and in the living room, next to the telly, there’s a bookcase filled with various trophies, awards and diplomas gathered over the decades. Among the books on the shelves there are the latest titles and some old tomes, family histories and antiquities handed down by great-grandparents and aunts. The room is full of beautiful lamps and small porcelain sculptures as well, delicate Elven handiwork from the Fifth Age. A simple, beautiful chandelier (very art nouveau) hangs in the ceiling in the hall.

It’s very clean, not a speck of dust to be seen (apparently it’s been like that all since Lindir more or less moved in – the dark-haired Elf barely stays in his own apartment anymore). No random clothes or other items are lying about and all of the ancient china on display has been carefully polished. They kick off their shoes (since that’s the rule in this house; Elrond likes it neat and doesn’t have any staff working for him to get rid of mud stains) and Legolas lets go of Estel, who jumps out his arms with a disgruntled little noise. Car rides apparently weren’t something this cat was made for. At once the creature makes a beeline for the big blue couch with its fluffy white pillows – oh, Lindir probably won’t be happy about that. Briefly Legolas wonders what excuse Arwen’s come up with to tell her Ada about all this.

Elrond and Lindir are in the kitchen when the teenagers make their presence known – _loudly_ , since Elrohir is trying to explain the plot of the _Rapunzel_ Disney movie to his brother. Why or when he’d have seen that movie, Legolas has no idea.

“Cozy,” Gimli remarks, looking around the hall. The walls are peach and there are thick dark beams in the ceiling.

“I’ve already rung Aragorn,” Arwen says, stepping past her squabbling brothers, “and he’ll be here any minute. C’mon, we should bake chocolate chip cookies and watch a movie – cuddles are mandatory.” Promptly, before he can protest, she loops an arm around Legolas’ elbow and sends a smile to Gimli. “I’m just going to borrow him a little while, OK? You’ll have him back soon. Have a look around. We’ve got a DVD collection on the shelf next to the door there.” She points encouragingly, before tugging Legolas with her.

Elrond looks up from his large cup of tea when his daughter rounds the corner. His hair is slightly mussed and he’s wearing striped pyjamas and those bunny slippers he received from Aunt Galadriel three Yules ago. Opposite of him sits Lindir, clad in a blue bathrobe (his hair also in a bit of disarray), stirring his coffee and the dark-haired Elf greets them with a warm smile. A well-thumbed book is open on the table and the sugar bowl is unlidded. The two adults look only vaguely tired; mostly since Elves don’t sleep that much anyway. But Legolas _really_ doesn’t want to think about what they might have been doing while Elrond’s kids had been ‘rescuing’ him.

“Evening,” Elrond says, nodding. Legolas returns the gesture.

“Oh, hi, Ada,” Arwen says, slightly sheepishly. “You’re not asleep yet?”

The elder Elf lifts a graceful eyebrow. “Would you believe that possible with the racket your brothers are making? I understood you would come home soon enough, with company.”

“Right. Mae gov’, by the way,” Arwen waves a hand at the other Elf who’s seated at the table, sipping at some quite black coffee with cream. “Sorry if we’re interrupting something.”

“That’s fine,” Lindir answers, polite as ever. Honestly, Legolas has never seen him anything other than pleasant and smiling. He’s got to have a very, _very_ long fuse. Though he does frown a little when Arwen mentions they brought Estel with them – relenting with: “Well, as long as you take care of the mess you make.”

“We will,” Legolas says quickly, not wanting to upset anybody, and then sends Arwen a sharp look. “You’re cutting off the circulation in my arm.”

“C’mon, we’re going to bake something.”

“Arwen, you know I’m _terrible_ at anything involving ovens –”

Of course, she refuses to listen.

* * *

Meanwhile, Gimli is standing in front of the rather wide shelf full of DVDs, pondering. After a moment, Elladan pops his head into the living room, waving at him. In the crook of his left elbow he’s balancing a bowl of popcorn. Seeing the Dwarf hasn’t picked anything yet, the Elf puts down the bowl on the low table before pointing at one of the cases.

“Hey, what about that one?”

Gimli kicks his shin with as much force as he dares. “I’m _not_ watching some silly romantic comedy.”

The Elf pouts. “What! Just a suggestion.” Elladan heaves a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Is it because you’re living one?”

“Fucking Elves,” Gimli growls and Elladan skitters away, laughing.

* * *

It’s a quarter past midnight when Aragorn makes his appearance. His hair is terribly ruffled and his tee-shirt a little askew (Arwen doesn’t seem to mind), and he’s armed with a few beers. Which Elrond glares at, then sighs, and says: “Fine, this once. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

His sons – and Aragorn - answer in choir: “Aye, aye, Cap!”

* * *

From the kitchen there’s the clattering of pans and the whirr of a mixer at work, followed by a hissed curse in Sindarin. Curious Gimli glances inside just in time to see Legolas, wearing a KISS THE CHEF-apron, elbow-deep in cookie dough. The sight is too sweet for him to resist padding inside, ignoring Arwen’s amused face, and wrapping his hands around the Elf’s waist. Had he been tall enough he’d have kissed him proper. This will have to do, for now.

When Arwen snaps a series of pictures (either to upload onto Ardagram or she’s snapchatting some friends of hers) and calls for her brothers to come see, Gimli can’t bring himself to care, smirking smugly against Legolas’ side.

The blonde’s pointy ears are all red again, all the way to the tips and, Mahal, how Gimli wished he could reach up and bite them. The thought courses through him hotly, causing him to blush a little but thankfully the beard helps conceal it.

Clearing his throat, Elrond announces he’s going to go for a walk, not wanting to intrude any more on this not-quite-private-but-almost evening. He sends a warning look at his children to behave while Lindir goes to grab their coats.

(Elrohir, the little orc, has by then already snuck a note into his dad’s pocket, reading: _Have fun & don’t come back loaded. ~~PS check glove compartment, protection's important~~  _– which might have been funny. Possibly. Slightly. It’s a wonder, really, that the twins can be so terrified of Thranduil but not of their own father. Legolas wouldn’t _ever_ dare do something like that.)

(Elrond doesn’t seem amused.)

* * *

The chocolate chip cookies don’t come out too bad despite Legolas’ questionable baking skills (mostly because Arwen is somewhat of an expert). After a lengthy wild discussion they’d finally managed to settle on watching _X-Men:_ _First Class,_ since it’ll contain enough explosions to satisfy Aragorn and the twins, and enough longing, love-struck gazing between the two mutants in the lead roles for Arwen to be pleased.

When they’d move from the kitchen to the living room they inadvertently woken Estel up from his nap; the cat had been curled up atop one of the pillows on the couch. Once they’d gotten settled, there’d been quite a fight (well, not that Gimli would ever admit to such a thing) between the cat and the Dwarf of whom would have the privilege to occupy Legolas’ lap. (They settle on a compromise; Estel ends up resting on Gimli’s knees, without the Dwarf gaining any terrible scratches.)

With Arwen curled up against Aragorn, and Elladan and Elrohir struggling for the remote, a wonderful sort of peace settles over the room. Legolas relishes it. The beer is cold and nice and the chocolate sweets melt on his tongue. Gimli’s weight is comforting against his chest and the Dwarf is idly plaiting a few stray blonde locks while watching the movie unfold.

Soon enough they’re out of popcorn (no thanks to Elrohir, greedy as he is). In the calm before the storm, while the characters on screen are preparing for the final strike against the villain, Legolas becomes vaguely aware that Aragorn and Arwen are no longer watching the movie at all. He exchanges a look with Gimli, who smirks and hands him his phone. The lovebirds don’t react at all to being photographed – well, at least until the twins notice and they start whistling and hooting (alternatively grimacing loudly because, _ugh_ , their sister, kissing - _yuck_ ).

“Ardagram,” Legolas mouths against Gimli’s hair, already working to upload the picture, not bothering with filters. “And possibly facebook.”

“And tumblr,” his boyfriend whispers back. “Better use appropriate tags.”

Then Aragorn snaps out of his and Arwen’s little bubble, turning to them and their offending phone sharply. “Hey! Don’t you _dare_!”

“Too late,” Legolas sing-songs grinning widely, waving the phone around, the loading screen glowing in the dark.

The Man grabs the nearest object, which happens to be a fluffy blue pillow, and swings it at him with a strong arm. Elrohir just barely manages to duck out of the way. “Why, you little shit!”

* * *

They hear the engines of a car on the driveway half-way through _Days of Future Past._ While Lindir lets them be, Elrond glances inside the living room (possibly to make sure everybody’s alive) – Aragorn has fallen asleep against Arwen’s shoulder by then and she’s stroking his hair with eyes glued on the screen, and Elladan is sprawled on a pile of blankets on the floor, happily munching away on popcorn. The remainder of the cookies have been demolished long ago and there are some empty cans littered on the table. His brother is out like a light in-between the two couples on the sofa. The Dwarf’s eyes are half-closed and Legolas is not so focused on the movie anymore, hand buried in Gimli’s plaited beard. Estel is purring in Gimli’s lap.

Overall, it doesn’t look too bad and, relieved, Elrond withdraws. He’s rather certain that when morning comes, he’ll receive an angry, worried phone call. He’d already tried reaching Thranduil’s estate; Galion had answered since apparently Thranduil was asleep. Or passed out. Anyway, Elrond had just left a message telling him not to worry and to take his advice and sit down with his son tomorrow and sort out their problems.

For now, though, Elrond’s going to let the young ones be. He hopes they’ll catch _some_ sleep. At least the house is still standing and he can’t even see any stains on the sofa.

* * *

To be honest, Legolas can’t remember watching the ending of the film, or maybe even the middle because that’s when things became a little blurry and he instead found himself braiding Gimli’s hair while the Dwarf slept. No one had commented.

(Though he’s not sure if he should be comforted or mortified by the fact that Gimli didn’t even stir when something hard poked him in the back.)

* * *

It’s three minutes to seven in the morning when the phone rings, jarring and far too loud and sudden to be pleasant. Elrohir groans like in pain and rolls over, covering his ears; Aragorn twitches but doesn’t wake up, and Arwen seems to have hidden under a knitted blanket, pressed against Aragorn’s side, refusing to move from the living (and quite comfortable) furnace that the Man makes. Legolas shifts but doesn’t want to disturb Gimli. And so Lindir ends up being the one having to pad out of bed to answer it.

But before he even has a chance to say hello, the Elf has to pull the phone as far away from his ear as possible, face paling. On the other side of the line someone is shouting and cursing and generally being unpleasant. Lindir stares at the phone a little helplessly until Elrond appears, half a minute later, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. It’s _far_ too early for this.

“Thranduil?” he asks without ado.

“Uh, yes,” Lindir answers, glancing toward the living room where the youths are still asleep. “Regrettably.”

On a normal day Thranduil may be stern, a little on edge, a little tense. Now he is a storm unleashed. The worry and fear and anger mixed on his tongue makes his voice harsh – no wonder Lindir grew so white. Bracing himself, Elrond picks up the phone.

“Yes?”

The onslaught is sharp and shrill: “Where _in the name of Mandos_ is my son, Elrond?! Have your sons _kidnapped_ _my child_? How on Arda can you let this happen every fourth fucking week?! _How_ have you raised those _menaces_? Are you happy now, are you _proud_ , Elrond?! Because my son is missing and the window is open and Galion found a ladder – a _ladder_! - under his window and that damn Dwarf is gone too and I swear, I swear to fucking Eru, if my boy is hurt, if your children have dragged him into some sort of trouble again I promise I will –”

“Good morning to you too, Thranduil,” Elrond cuts in before the other Elf can burst a vein. “Legolas is here and he is fine. As is Gimli. They came over with my children to watch some movies last night.” Wisely enough he chooses not to mention the beer or how closely knitted together he’d found Thranduil’s son and his boyfriend this morning. “Don’t worry; I’m going to drive him back to you before lunch. He’s whole. Yes, I swear. You can stop fidgeting. And put that down glass I know you are holding before it breaks.”

On the other side, Thranduil lets out a series of deep breaths. There’s a slight clatter, something being put onto a table or counter top. Then the blonde Elf groans a little, rubbing at his temples with his free hand, and there’s a series of muttered Quenyan curses (which can be rather colourful). Elrond really isn’t envious of him at the moment. Out of the corner of his eye he catches Lindir watching him with a slight frown marring his fair face.

“Now, Thranduil,” Elrond goes on, wearing the stern look which his sons would call his ‘bitch-face #12’ ( _another_ thing he needs to have a stern talk with them about). “You should drink some water and take some pills for that hangover. I advise you to sleep it off and _don’t you drive anywhere_. You hear me? I’ll have Legolas back with you at twelve o’clock, and then you two should have a little chat about boundaries – and that goes _both ways_. I’ll speak with my children later about appropriate behaviour; but maybe you should listen to your son sometime when he speaks to you about such things. And next time, please, for the love of Elbereth, _think_ before downing an entire bottle just because you catch your son with a Dwarf. You mustn’t be such a drama queen. Your liver is suffering needlessly.”

 _Honestly_ ; he may have a soft spot for Legolas – he’s a quite sweet child and the boy needs some support now with Gimli (since now everybody may be so understanding of a gay Elf/Dwarf relationship) – but Elrond did _not_ sign up to be Thranduil’s babysitter. Really, the other Elf needs to go talk to somebody. And have his liver examined by a doctor.

By now, Lindir is leaning against the wall, hovering close to Elrond’s shoulder – possibly listening in on the conversation in case there’s an emergency on the other side. Or to have warning if Thranduil decides that coming over fully armed right now would be appropriate (then they’d have time to arm themselves). However, nothing of that occurs.

“I – I am _not_ a drama queen!” Thranduil sounds utterly outraged. Oh, yes. Elrond resists the urge to loudly sigh.

“Well, I … ugh." The blonde groans. "Damn it.  _Fine_.”  _Finally_ Thranduil relents. He sounds very tired and a bit drunk still, but he lowers his voice to a more manageable level. “Just, just make sure he’s OK. _Saes_.” The last word is quiet, an afterthought; a noise that the blonde finds a little hard to make. But Elrond considers this a great leap in character development. Again, with more pressure: “Make sure he’s OK.”

“I will. We’ll see you at twelve. Good morning.”

Once the phone is back in its cradle, Elrond turns to Lindir. The other Elf looks a little petrified. “Oh relax, meldir. Thranduil just did it again, that’s all. It’s been sorted now,” Elrond says, waving a hand dismissively, and Lindir visibly relaxes. “Come on, let’s make some breakfast. The kids will wake up eventually.”

Pancakes sound nice. He hopes they still have some of that strawberry jam left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sindarin translations :_  
>  **mae govannen** well met, greetings _[I figured that young, modern Elves might abbreviate common words in everyday speech (and while texting and emailing and so forth), which is why I have Arwen use the form_ mae gov’ _.]_  
>  **saes** please _(interjection)_  
>  **meldir** friend


	20. Part 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _An update! after an eternity. Sorry about that. Just a lot of things caught up with me, and, well, to be honest I suck at writing endings - and we're starting to near it now (...I think...). I'd actually, for once, planned a bit of an ending scene only to just come up with a new one and I'm trying to decide now what drafts to keep and what to alter. That, a lot of other fics and real-life projects are keeping me rather busy._  
>  _This chapter is a bit short, but I thought I'd rather give you lovelies_ something _rather than nothing at all. Plus I missed the second gigolas week (I had ideas, as per usual, but none of them were realized in time to publish), so here's my (late) contribution..._

Breakfast is a relatively happy affair involving pancakes and lots of syrup and, in the twins’ case, strawberry jam. Elrond chooses not to mention Thranduil’s early wake-up call until they’re half-way through the meal, at which Legolas at once starts apologizing profusely, but the older Elf just waves him off. Had he been less polite, Gimli thinks, Elrond might have called Thranduil an ass outright, but now he just mentions it in a very subtle roundabout way and Lindir chooses not to voice any opinion in the matter at all.  The cellist – because apparently that’s what he is – instead insists on them all eating seconds and makes certain that they’re given as much syrup as possible.

(Arwen vividly informs the Dwarf of how their dad and Lindir met some thirty-odd years ago during a concert in Lindon when apparently Lindir was soloist. At the mention, the older Elf sort-of-blushes and waves a hand and says that really, he’s not _that_ good, honestly; but Arwen just shakes her head and Elrond looks rather fondly at Lindir and, yeah, Gimli is _pretty sure_ they’re shagging.)

Then the doorbell rings, and it keeps ringing incessantly (accompanied oddly enough by a muffled voice, _screaming_ ) all until Elrond goes to open the door. And had the Elf been a little less dignified then he might have slammed it right shut again.

“… I SAID _OPEN_ , YOU F- Ah. Good morning.”

“I said,” Elrond says without preamble, not bothering to greet him; “I would drive them home, and that you should have stayed in bed and slept off your hangover.”

Thranduil doesn’t look ashamed at all, though he is paler than usual and has dark rings under his eyes and his hair hasn’t seen a comb in the last fourteen hours.

“At last! That took you forever! Honestly, how old are you  _really_ , Elrond?” the blonde says without batting an eyelid, and glares past Elrond into the hall, where a few curious heads are peeking out from the kitchen. Gimli doesn’t cower and neither does Legolas but Elladan lets out a little squeak as he spots the blonde on their doorstep, who is looking rather furious. Even his tie is on backwards and Gimli doubts that the Elf has even noticed. “Now _where_ in the name of Mandos is my son? And why, by Eru, are you wearing those abominable slippers?”

“ _Don’t you start_ ,” Elrond cuts him off sharply. “They’re a gift from Galadriel!”

Thranduil honest-to-Mahal _sneers_. Sneers! Gimli hadn’t thought the Elf could get more frightening (not that he’d ever admit such a thing out loud) but with that kind of expression on his face, Thranduil looks ready to commit murder. _Actual_ cold-blooded murder. Possibly by luring innocent folks to his big grand mansion first and tempt them with, dunno, his hair, which probably has been insured just like his five-hundred Armani suits and his eight different cars. (Legolas’ hair is nicer though.) _Anyone_ should be scared by that. But Elrond doesn’t even _blink_.

Bah. Elves.

“Never mind. Legolas! Come here.”

“But I haven’t finished my pancakes!”

“I don’t care about some –”

Elrond sends the Elf another glare. This pissing match could, if escalating, possibly rival that one between his Uncle Óin and Balin four years ago, Gimli thinks. That would be … bad. (Oh, if only Fíli and Kíli were here to witness this! They’d laugh their asses off.)

“Let them finish their pancakes,” Elrond says sternly and Thranduil mutters something on his breath that sounds like the Sindarin equivalent of _‘damn fucking shit I hate everything and everybody’_ encompassed in a single word, but relents, eventually. “And take a breath before you pop a vein. Arwen, could you be a dear and fetch Thranduil a glass of water?”

“Sure, Ada.” She sounds relieved to be getting away from the scene. (Honestly, what are the neighbours going to think? The door is still wide open.)

Elrond surveys the blonde critically. “And maybe a couple of ibuprofen from the medicine cupboard, as well, for the headache.”

There’s a visible wince. “I don’t have any fucking _headache_. Would you stop coddling -”

“Yes, you do. And I am not coddling you. I have a _medical degree,_  somethingwhich _you_ certainly lack, Thranduil. Be glad I’m not calling anyone on you for driving here! Now. Sit. Down.”

For the following twenty minutes, Elrond doesn’t let Thranduil out of his sight for a single second. Darn impressive, if Gimli might say so himself. That Elf has got a glare that could _easily_ compete with that of Dwalin.

* * *

The drive back to Legolas’ place turns out to be one of the most awkward half hours in Gimli’s life. And that’s saying something.

For the first eighteen minutes no one says a word, Thranduil is wheezing rather than breathing proper and Legolas doesn’t seem to be breathing at all. Estel is hiding under the blonde’s jacket in the Elf’s lap, and Legolas is stroking the cat’s back soothingly, but it doesn’t seem to work going by the aggravated yowls that keep escaping from the ball of fur.

Gimli spends all that time in the backseat (as far away from Legolas as possible; he’s pretty certain that Thranduil would’ve preferred to leave him behind, or at least lock him in the trunk, if not for Legolas’ and Lindir’s combined intervening), fiddling with a braid clasp in his beard and avoiding looking at either Elf. Thranduil is staring at the road without blinking. His eyes must be terribly dry.

After twenty-one minutes, Legolas clears his throat. His father flinches but says nothing. His knuckles have become utterly white, his grip of the steering wheel so tight the thing might break soon.

After twenty-four minutes, Legolas clears his throat again. They’re approaching another juncture in the road. Last time they did so, the blonde didn’t say anything, but maybe they did a wrong turn because Legolas says: “Adar. Left here. Not right.”

 _Oh dear,_ Gimli thinks. Should have let Elrond drive them back. (How will he explain to his Da if he finds out they’re caught by police and Thranduil ends up with his driving licence revoked for hangover driving and they’re dumped in a ditch somewhere and Gimli has to explain to said police that nobody’s being kidnapped and all this is an honest misunderstanding?)

Thranduil turns left.

“… Adar,” Legolas tries again, apparently finding it fit to talk now that his father is – sort of – listening. “I’m. I’m sorry.”

The radio’s lulling in the background, a gravelly voice eagerly explaining: _“…and new discoveries have been made taking us ever closer to the lost island of Númenor. Experts now think it may actually have been sunk during a massive volcanic eruption between thirteen and fifteen thousand years ago. Recent research shows…”_

Gimli blinks as Thranduil grabs the radio, glares at it, and tugs hard. _Very_ hard. There’s a fizzle and the noise dies abruptly, the voice in mid-word. Then, without a word and without swerving from the road, the Elf lowers the window on his side and chucks the whole radio kit out of it.

Did he just…?

He _did_.

He can sort of see, now, where Legolas has gotten his wide range of emotion from. Albeit where Legolas can be easily moved both to laughter and to tears and be overfilled with joy and act generally giddy, Thranduil seems to be more of a drama queen. One with a very short fuse.

(That Elf is also a lot stronger than he looks like. Hadn’t Legolas said once he had a black belt or something? Maybe his father does, too? Aw, crap.)

“Adar,” Legolas says, surprisingly gently and calmly. Like this is the typical way to act for a Mahal-knows-how-old Elf who should be a creature of dignity and … something. “You didn’t have to do that. You know what it costs to install a new one, and we bought that one just eight weeks ago.”

“I -” Thranduil starts, then pauses. Takes a deep breath. Shakes his head. Gimli doesn’t dare speaking up for the moment; he bites his tongue as he nearly agrees with his boyfriend that, yeah, that was a fucking _ridiculous_ thing to do.

“Never mind,” the Elf says sharply. “You’ve had breakfast, yes? This morning. Are you hungry? Maybe we should – eat. Yes. Food’s good. We should eat. Once we’re back and off this thrice-damned fucking _bumpy_ road -”

The road is _not_ bumpy.

 _Great,_ Gimli thinks. Should he call somebody? His Da? Say his final goodbyes? Oh, his Da would worry but Aunt Dís would find it _hilarious_. Or call Kíli and Fíli and tell them to never ever interact with too many Elves because they’re trouble – most of them anyway, and the brothers don’t need more of that do they? Or at least for their mother’s sake. Yeah. Then call Dwalin to – wait, no; that would just give the Dwarrow the unjust pleasure of stating ‘I told you so’. Which he does not deserve, ever.

Legolas clears his throat _again_. “Adar.” There’s a mutter in Sindarin. It sounds suspiciously like a reprimand.

“We’ll eat. Lunch. And then we’ll …” Thranduil’s face twists into a grimace. Very un-Elflike. “… _talk_.”

Legolas looks bewildered, like his father has just added a new word to his vocabulary. Which he might actually have. “Talk,” he repeats, flatly.

“Yes. Elrond … thought it to be best.”

At least that’s _one_ sensible Elf. And that Lindir chap didn’t seem too bad, either, from what little Gimli’s seen of him. He’s become very certain that they’re shagging. Elrond and Lindir, that is – Thranduil has nothing to do with it, and Gimli doesn’t want to think about it either way. That’s just – _ugh_ , yeah, no thanks.

“One condition,” Legolas says to his father, who tightens his white-knuckled grip of the wheel. He probably doesn’t think his son is in any position to make demands right now. “No wine. _At all._ Seriously, Ada, this is becoming embarrassing. What would Daerada have said?”

Make that _two_ sensible Elves - Mahal bless him.

* * *

It is such a relief to get out of the car eight minutes later and stumble out on the gravel patio. Honestly, for a bit there, Gimli was chilled down to his bones with fear. Not that he'd ever admit that out loud, of course. But somebody might have _died._ And the road to Thranduil's mansion is in the middle of nowhere, and it'd be far too easy to dump a body -

Suddenly Legolas whips around to stare at him with wide eyes. "Gimli, are you all right?"

What? Oh, he might have said that last part out loud. Oops.

His boyfriend bites his lip, offering a hand, pointedly ignoring his father's sudden stumble on the steps up to the door as he grabs his Dwarf. "Come on. Nobody's going to die, promise."

"But this is how it would end if it were a movie. Unless this is a romantic comedy, which it's  _not,"_ Gimli stresses, and Legolas laughs - laughs! It's pretty soothing, actually, and Gimli finds himself relaxing a little.

"Oh, c'mon," the blonde stage-whispers. "You're a Dwarf. Surely you're not scared of some puny Elf?"

"He's your Da."

"Hey, did you see me quaking when I met yours?"

"Well," Gimli admits, "no. But he didn't get drunk and throw radios out of cars!"

"He's got a bit of a temper, that's all. We promised we'd talk, so we'll talk. Look, he's a bit grumpy, but he's over a hundred years old - sooner or later he'll realize he's acting a bit like a brat," Legolas says, then pauses. "Hopefully."

 _Well ..._ "At least he promised food."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Please take note that I_ **do not** _condone drinking and driving, at all,_ **under any circumstance** _. But Thranduil is a bit of an idiot, and doesn’t know how to express his worries, which is why he chose to ignore Elrond’s promise to have Legolas (and Gimli) sent home and instead went to fetch his son himself. Please don’t do what he does in this fic. Really, it wouldn’t be a good idea._  
>  _Also, as Lindir is a minstrel in canon I made him a musician in this 'verse, too. I choose to make him play the violoncello mostly because I do too. (Right now, if anybody would want to know, I'm rehearshing[this piece](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a9-_YBQDUjc) [please note I'm not the one playing in this recording!])._
> 
>  
> 
>  _Sindarin translations :_  
>  **Daerada[r]** Grandfather

**Author's Note:**

> _Here we have the Note. Great liberties have been taken when writing this story and some things may need explanation: (I'm going to edit this one day, some things to be changed/added when I have time)_
> 
>  
> 
> _(1) Names, URLs, emails or the like are NOT real. If they happen to be functioning if you copy-paste them into your browser, then I apologize to whoever owns said address for the inconvenience._  
>  _(2) Some of the fandoms mentioned within are familiar and real, such as Doctor Who. They haven’t changed from how we know them today (except maybe instead of actors who are all human, there are Elves involved as well. And Hobbits and Dwarves can also be seen on set.)_  
>  _(3) SA = Seventh Age (of the Years of the Sun), as stated on http://lotr.wikia.com/wiki/Timeline_of_Arda (scroll down to Brief Timeline to see the list there). It makes sense that Middle Earthians would still use those markers; a bit like we may use B.C. and A.D., except to a greater extent, in every-day context and not just in history books._  
>  _(4) This story assumes that, while it being the modern day, the earlier events of Arda really happened. It’s in the history books. But back in the Sixth Age in the year of 1915-ish a guy named Tolkien took his time actually writing not history books but this epic story about events between the start of the world and the Third Age, and he wrote for years and years and years. I suppose he’s Mannish but of course he was fluent in kind of every Middle Earthian language there is. These books made a fandom which is HUGE and parents in the Sixth and Seventh Ages started naming their kids after all these amazing, long-ago heroes like “. And not long ago a Hobbit named Peter Took-Jackson made a series of films about these books and the three most recent ones are part of the ‘There And Back Again’ arc about a little Hobbit (hence why every Baggins nowadays are so frickin’ proud, like; “MAN, WE SAVED THE WOOORLD”) going on an adventure with 13 dwarves (“Yeah right,” thinks the dwarves, “but if we hadn’t brought the burglar you’d never have, so there!”)._  
>  _(5) This of course means all races are intact. Hobbits strongly refuse to live on the second floor, while Elves thrive in skyscrapers and like being so close to the sky (cue interesting interspecies dinner-parties). Even the occasional Ent may be seen strolling through the park, but usually not since they don’t like cities but you can still visit them in the depths of New Fangorn Forest (unless you’re a lumberjack)._  
>  _(6) The school system here is, as briefly as it is mentioned, mainly based on the English system. Meaning 13th year is at College/High School when you’re 18 years old. (This is both the main characters’ ages.)_  
>  _(7) While the characters’ races have been kept, the way they age has been altered just a little bit; or rather their coming-of-ages. Elves are immortal and Dwarves live for like 200 years and Hobbits live longer than Men usually do, but mature in the same rate as Men; so they are all teens ate the same time. However the time of “coming of age” differs because of race. For Men this is 18, Dwarves and Hobbits 19 and Elves 20 – Why? I’d have kept the original legal ages for each race (Hobbits 33, Elves 50 and so on) but it would just complicate things too much and I wouldn't be able to write all races going to school side-by-side. How unfair wouldn't it be if a Man attended some 12-13 years and an Elf had to attend like 40 just because they’re not legal anyway? Therefore, I changed it. And yes, Men are probably very jealous. At 80 they’ll be old and grey and the Dwarves still look like 30 (but with better beards), not to mention the Elves (minus the beards)!_  
>  _(8) And thus apropos that: there is some racism being expressed in this story of the Elves vs. Dwarf vs. Men vs. Hobbits variety. Not overly much but the story sometimes addresses age-old prejudices. Because I couldn't honestly see a fully prejudice-free future Middle Earth even if Elves, Men, Hobbits and Dwarves have been living side-by-side for ages, inventing electricity and telephones and the internet. If this bothers anyone or causes offence, I apologize, for it was not my intent._


End file.
